


Nights were Mainly Made for Saying Things (that you can't say tomorrow day)

by Goodforthesoul



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anti-Daenerys, Birth complications, Cheating Harry, Creepy Petyr Baelish, Cunnilingus, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Jealous Jon Snow, Jon Snow and Robb Stark are Best Friends, Jon has some things to work out, Mentioned but not in detail, Mutual Pining, No adultery, Overprotective Robb Stark, POV Jon Snow, Past Abuse, Past Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Past Jon Snow/Ygritte, Roommates, Sansa is engaged to Harry, Sexual Harassment, Slow Burn, except from harry, one of Jon's exes, she seriously doesn't come off well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22178887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goodforthesoul/pseuds/Goodforthesoul
Summary: It is times like these that Jon regrets quitting. Smoking had been a bad habit. Terrible, really. On an intellectual level, knows that he is far better off—after he and Ygrett split up (which was a really nice way of saying imploded)—having swapped his pack-a-day for gym membership and a pair of running shoes. But at times like these, his fingers itch for his lighter. He would give anything for an excuse to go outside, and it takes all of the restraint he can muster to tamp down on those cravings.But really, he just wants an excuse, any excuse, to leave, if only for a few minutes. The bracing winter air would be a significant improvement over where he is now.Literally anywhere would be an improvement over where he is now.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 218
Kudos: 422





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the Arctic Monkey's Song "Do I Wanna Know."

It is times like these that Jon regrets quitting. Smoking had been a bad habit. Terrible, really. On an intellectual level, knows that he is far better off—after he and Ygrett split up (which was a really nice way of saying imploded)—having swapped his pack-a-day for gym membership and a pair of running shoes. But at times like these, his fingers itch for his lighter. He would give anything for an excuse to go outside, and it takes all of the restraint he can muster to tamp down on those cravings.

But really, he just wants an excuse, any excuse, to leave, if only for a few minutes. The bracing winter air would be a significant improvement over where he is now.

Literally _anywhere_ would be an improvement over where he is now.

Because the last place in the world Jon wants to be is a party celebrating Sansa’s engagement to Harold Fucking Hardyng.

He hates Hardyng. The man is charming, successful, handsome, all blond and perfect, with his cleft chin and warm easy smile. And _of course_ Sansa is completely mad for him. He is exactly her type. She has always liked them pretty and rich.

It was a terrible idea to come. He had known that it would be the second he got the invite—handwritten in Sansa’s elegant script and on paper that was thick and soft and expensive, because that is exactly who she is—which he had immediately thrown away, because that's exactly who he is. He had absolutely no business being anywhere near this party with all its rich food and richer people. But when he had failed to RSVP, Sansa had called and asked him to be here, had said that it would mean the world to her. Robb was on a business trip and wouldn’t be able to make it and Arya was traveling with Gendry in Esso and Bran was at university in King's Landing, and she didn’t expect him to fly all the way home for a silly party, so she was really hoping that Jon could come, because after losing her parents, it was so important to her that at least some of her family could be there to celebrate with her. And Jon had spent so much time hanging around their house that he was practically a brother to her. Jon had cringed and agreed to make an appearance. He had _never_ been able to say ‘no’ to her and to be thought of as a brother was better than not being thought of at all.

He needs another beer. Or something stronger. Something brown that burns on the way down. Whiskey maybe. Another drink will give him something to do with his hands, which are still fidgeting for a smoke.

“What can I get for you,” the bartender asks as he saddles up the bar. She is pretty with a warm smile and strawberry blond hair, and at another time and in another place he might think about chatting her up. But not here and not now, so he just orders Jameson, double, neat. He would have liked the bottle, but this isn’t that kind of place.

“Thanks,” he says as he distractedly takes his drink and turns, leaning against the glossy wood with brass fixtures, and he can’t stop his eyes from scanning the room, from finding Sansa. He always does. She is laughing and beautiful and Hardyng’s arm is possessively around her waist, his smile smug and self-assured. And he has every right to be smug, doesn’t he? He has _her_. She is looking up at him, beaming, while he says something to their guests. Jon’s hands clench and he throws back the whiskey and heads to the door that leads out of the private room of the posh restaurant where the party is being held. He needs to get some air and a pack of cigarettes.

It feels _good_ to be outside. The air is cold, but he likes the way that it bites into his cheeks, and he is still warm from the whiskey. He shoves his hands in his pockets, wishing he had thought to bring gloves, and starts walking. There is a Tesco’s not far from the restaurant, and Jon buys a pack of Marlboros refusing to think about the fact that he is backsliding. He promises himself that he will only buy the one pack, that he will only smoke tonight. But he knows, even before he makes it to himself, that the promise is a lie. At the very least, there will be the wedding to get through--a wedding that as a beloved family friend he is sure to get invited to. And then all the Stark parties after that. A lifetime of watching her be happy with him.

Though, he supposes it is better than seeing her unhappy. There had been far too many years of that. Too many years of smiles she had tried to fake and bruises she tried to hide and hollow reassurances that everything was okay. If Hardyng makes her happy, really _happy_ , well that is one thing—perhaps the only thing—he has going for him.

Jon lights up during the walk back to the restaurant. It has been six years, but he hasn’t forgotten, not for a moment, how good that first drag always felt. He exhales, luxuriating in the familiar rush of nicotine. Smoking relaxes him and he leans against the brick facade of the restaurant, his breathing steadied and his eyes closing slightly.

“I thought you quit,” she says, her voice full of playful chiding.

He opens his eyes and they meet hers, deep and blue, and glassy from two too many flutes of champagne. 

“I did,” he shrugs.

“So what happened?”

“I don’t know. Just felt like it.”

She pauses, and then surprises him by holding out her hand. “Can I have one?”

“I thought you quit.”

“I did,” she mirrors her shrug as a smile playing on her lips. She had never been a smoker, but he had caught her at one of the parties that they had both, embarrassingly, both ended up at. Her too young to be in a place like that, he clearly too old. He was only four years older than she was, but at that age, it had seemed a bigger deal. She had been mortified and had promised him that she would quit, never smoke again, as long as he promised not to tell her parents. It had probably been one of her first times smoking—there was something in the way she held her cigarette, too practiced, unnatural, that suggested it was more an affectation than a habit. He had told her that he would keep her secret, and had stopped going to parties after that.

He grins in return, because he can’t _not_ smile when she directs one at him. He pulls another cigarette from the pack and hands it to her. She press it between her lips and leans forward for him to give her a light. He flicks the lighter and brings up the flame, his breath hitching as her fingers brushed against his, his heart pounding as she tilts her face closer to his.

She takes a drag from the cigarette and coughs. “Harry is going to kill me for this. He had me on a cleanse last week to detox.”

“Why aren’t you inside with Prince Charming anyway?”

“I needed some air.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Figured you just needed to go outside for a good brood.” She smirks, but her face becomes suddenly serious as she turns to look at him. “Jon?”

“Mhmm.”

“Do you ever feel like you are making a huge mistake? Like you are watching yourself do it but for some reason, you are powerless to stop it.”

He thinks back to Ygritte. Her screaming at him. Him yelling back at her. The fighting and fucking that followed. She was wild, and he loved her for that until the moment he no longer could, the second it all got to be too much and he told her that she had to leave or he would. Watching her shove her things in a suitcase, telling him that she hated him with each armful of clothes that she threw onto their bed. Knowing that he could make it alright again if he could only figure out to say but incapable of finding the words to, once again, rectify the situation. Hearing the door slam shut behind her, knowing that this time she was gone for good, for real, that she wasn’t ever coming back.

He thinks Val and how good things had started with her. The way that would talk late into the night, smoking weed and drinking red wine, and laughing while they fucked, horny and stoned and unable to get enough of each other. And then that high was not enough, and he let her lead him through shrooms and LSD and ecstasy, which she explained would expand their minds, but almost always seemed to lead back into the bedroom. And the sex had been _mind-blowing_ , but not in the sort of way that results in spiritual enlightenment. When she started putting a needle in her arm, though, he knew he couldn’t follow her any more, and he found it was too late to get her back. It had gone wrong, so wrong, and no matter what he tried, she had just floated further and further away from him, sinking deeper and deeper, until there was no way to reach her anymore. He thinks that he maybe could have loved her, or maybe he did, but he let her drift away and had failed to help her when she needed him most.

He thinks of Dany, who had been the hardest, worse than Ygrette and her passion and anger, worse than Val and her self-destruction. Dany had clung so tightly that he thought she would suffocate him, squeezing him until he was hollowed out inside so that she could fill him up with her. And only her. The jealous rages that would flare if he mentioned another girl: a friend, a coworker, it didn’t matter who. The burn of her threats. Her constant need for reassurance, for placating, to be told again and again that he loved her, that he worshipped her. All the times he tried to break things off and he somehow ended up in bed with her again, unable to not appease her, unable to resist the demands she made of him.

He thinks of Sansa and knows that now, of all nights, he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he says.

“What do you do?”

“Dunno. Try to pick up the pieces.”

“Harry is cheating on me.” Her voice is small and toneless, testing out a phrase that she has been too afraid to say aloud. “Or at least, I think he is. I found… things…. And emails, texts. He doesn’t know I suspect.” She laughs, hard and brittle, and gestures vaguely toward the cigarette. “I guess I’m not the only one sneaking around.”

“It’s hardly same.”

“No,” she replies sadly. “It isn’t.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can’t marry him,” he says with vehemence which surprises even him.

“I don’t know that I can’t. I mean, we’ve already announced it. It’s been in all the papers. This party. The deposits. It would be too much, too embarrassing.”

“And being married to a man who is fucking around wouldn’t be?” he says, perhaps a little too harshly from the way she flinches. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“No,” she says. “You’re right. I am probably just being stupid. I always am.”

“You’re not stupid. Never have been.” He flicks away the ash at the end of his cigarette.

“If I’m not stupid, then I just must have terrible luck,” she sighs heavily. “I really thought he was different, better. Not like Joff or Ramsay. I convinced myself that I might be happy. Gods am I dumb.”

“He’s the stupid one. Daft for even looking at another woman. Completely mad. If I were lucky enough to have you, to have someone like you, I mean…” he trails off. “It’s not your fault, sweet girl,” he says, lamely, but at a loss of anything else to make her see the truth without revealing everything.

“I know that, Jon,” she says. “But I just can’t feel it.” She straightens and stretches. “I had better get inside.” She starts to walk toward the door, but then stops and turns around. “Promise you won’t tell anyone. It is too humiliating. And I don’t want to deal with Arya and Robb and Theon tripping over each other to murder him.” She smiles weakly. “Besides I don’t know what to do. And, I don’t want them to pity me. I’ve had all the pity I take.”

“I promise,” he replies; it is not for him to tell. And he wants to say more, wants to ask her to stay with him outside. To forget the party and Harry and the fact that her fiancé can’t keep it in his pants. But he doesn’t. Instead, he shows restraint. And then he lights another cigarette as he watches her walks through the door and thinks about the fact that when Sansa was listing the reason why she should stay with Hardyng, she never mentioned love.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When, two weeks later, there is a knock on Jon’s door at 7:23 pm, he isn’t expecting anyone, and he sure isn’t expecting Sansa Stark. He has thought about her. Of course, he has thought about her. A lot. More than he should. Almost constantly, if he is being honest (which he usually isn’t, at least not with himself). But he doesn’t expect to see her again until the next family party. He might be an old family friend, but the two of them don’t exactly run in the same social circles.

When, two weeks later, there is a knock on Jon’s door at 7:23 pm, he isn’t expecting anyone, and he sure isn’t expecting Sansa Stark. He has thought about her. Of course, he has thought about her.  _ A lot. _ More than he should. Almost constantly, if he is being honest (which he usually isn’t, at least not with himself). But he doesn’t expect to see her again until the next family party. He might be an old family friend, but the two of them don’t exactly run in the same social circles. 

Still, a part of him had hoped that she would call, tell him that she had thrown Hardyng over—as he fucking deserved—but with every day that passed without word from her, Jon had become a little less hopeful and a little more resigned to watching her be unhappy again. 

He has thought about Hardyng too, and just how satisfying it would be to punch him in his stupid, perfect, cheating face.

But now Sansa is here, standing in his doorway, holding two brown takeaway bags. “Have you eaten?” she asks, and he steps aside so that she can enter his flat, wordless because he does not trust himself to speak.

“Sorry to show up like this,” she continues, not noticing his silence, or not caring, throwing the bags on his already cluttered kitchen table. “Didn’t want to bother you. Just didn’t really know where else to go.” He hears the cracks in her voice, sees them on her face, fracturing her usual composure, her habitual poise.

“Not a bother, and not a problem,” he says. “Though I wasn’t exactly expecting company.” He gestures apologetically at his small flat’s general state of disarray, his ratty old t-shirt and sweatpants with stretched out elastic that hang too low on his hips, his curls still damp from the shower he just got out of. He didn’t even know she knew his address—though of course she had known where to send the invitation, must have gotten from Robb at some point—and now here she is, unannounced, and he can only imagine what she must think of this place and what she must think of him for living in it.

The split with Dany has wrecked him financially as much as it had emotionally. She'd had expensive taste, and they had moved into a flat that he could barely afford. But it had been what she wanted, and he had wanted her to have it. Because maybe if he could give her that it would prove that he loved her, only her, and then maybe she would feel better, more secure, less volatile. Maybe it would be what would finally satisfied her, made her happy. Made them happy. It hadn’t worked and had pretty much drained any savings he had managed to scrape together. 

“I should have called.”

“You know you’re always welcome. Family, right?” 

“Right,” she said with a small smile. “Family.”

“Beer?” he asks as he grabs one for himself.

“No thanks,” she says, as she begins to unwrap the foil from what looks like a pretty expensive bottle of champagne. She uncorks it. “I have this.”

He notices that she doesn’t offer to share as she flops onto the couch.

“That bad?”

“That bad.” She takes a long drink. 

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Okay,” he says, pulling two plates from the cabinet, two forks from the draw. “Can I fix you a plate?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Mind if I eat? I’m starved.” He hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast that morning. Lunch was an easy thing to skip if he needed to shave a few bucks off of his monthly expenditure. And since buying a pack of cigarettes every few days was cutting into his budget, he’d foregone today.

He still wasn’t smoking as much as he had been, but he could feel the addiction creeping back, getting its hold on him. It was only a matter a time, he knew, until he was right back to where he had been before he quit. He could lie to himself about restraint, but the truth was that he didn’t have any. Not when it came to cigarettes. Not when it came to other things that he would rather not think about right now with Sansa Stark,  _ Sansa Stark _ , making herself comfortable, or as comfortable as she could in the tight navy blue dress she has  _ poured _ herself into—the dress fits her so well it should be illegal—on his sofa.

She gestures, mock magnanimity, toward the bags. “Please, help yourself.”

He loads his plate up with the first takeaway box he pulls out. Beef short ribs. Polenta. Some sort of mushroom sauce that has already started to congeal a bit. The food only lukewarm, but he doesn’t care. It smells fucking delicious and will probably be the best thing he eats all month.

He takes his plate and his beer and slumps into the corner of the couch, next to her. Close. Maybe too close. He can’t help but be distracted by how close she is--in _that_ _dress_ \--to him. But there aren’t too many places to sit in his tiny flat, so he tries not to think about the way that their knees are almost, _almost_ , touching. 

He shovels a fork full of food into his mouth, and moans, actually fucking  _ moans _ . “This is amazing,” he says around another mouthful.

She smiles, small and sad. “I’m glad someone is able to enjoy it.”

He puts his fork down,  _ restraint _ , and looks up from his plate, but doesn’t say anything.

“It’s from the trattoria where Harry and I had our first date. It’s actually the meal we had for our first date.”

Jon feels polenta stick in his throat.

She sighs and takes another gulp of champagne. “I haven’t left him.”

“Figured. If you’d had, I would have heard about it.” Even if she hadn’t called him, Robb or Arya would have, if only to plan Hardyng’s very, very painful death. The Starks had never been good with secrets, at least not at keeping them.

He wonders how much she knows about his past relationships. Arya and Robb has both been there to pick up the pieces. Every time. After Ygritte, when he had started drinking too much, just not wanting to feel anything after feeling too much of everything during their years together. They had basically staged an intervention with Val, worried about where she was leading him. He had brushed it off at the time—it had all  _ seemed _ harmless enough—but later he realized that they had much more foresight, had seen things so much clearer, than he. And after Dany, when he had to apologize to both of them. Robb she had tolerated, but Dany, jealous and paranoid, had all but forbidden him from spending time with Arya. At first he had explained to her that there was absolutely nothing going on between them, that Arya was like a little sister to him, but Dany hadn’t listened, wasn’t convinced, and he had, eventually, gone along with it because… he’d had no good reason, but Arya had forgiven him anyway, though she did make it conditional on him getting her approval on any future romantic partners after reasonably explaining that he had terrible taste in girlfriends, and, frankly, could not be trusted.

“I know I should. But I can’t. I’m such an idiot.” She waits a moment for his response, but he doesn’t say anything. What could be possibly say? If she is an idiot, what the fuck does that make him? His record isn’t much better than hers—it may, in its own way, be worse. 

He was, honestly, the last person in the world to offer relationship advice. And yet he was all she had right now. He would have felt sorry for her if he hadn’t been feeling so many other things. 

“Even after tonight.” She takes a deep breath. “Do you know what tonight is?” He shakes his head. “Our anniversary. Our  _ fucking anniversary _ ,” she repeats. “We had our first date three years ago. We were supposed to go out to dinner. The same restaurant. I had called to see if the chef could make the same meal. To surprise Harry. To remind him, maybe. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was romantic and stupid and I am such an idiot. Because at five he called and said he wouldn’t be able to make it. Got caught up at work on a project that he just couldn’t get away from. He would be stuck in his office all night. He was very apologetic, so terribly sorry. I almost believed.” She angrily wipes a tear. “No. I did believe. Because I’m just that gullible, that dumb. So I called up the restaurant to see if they could do takeaway. Thought maybe we could do a sort of picnic in his office. But when I got to his office… he wasn’t there.”

“Maybe he had to run out,” Jon says evenly, despite his hands flexing, itching for a fight he will probably never get. He isn’t sure why he says it. Maybe because he doesn’t want to seem too eager for her to break her engagement—even though he has never been more thrilled about anything in his life. Maybe it is because Dany did a good job of training him to try to placate, to diffuse.

The plate of food is on the floor. He’s suddenly not feeling all that hungry either. At least not for food that was meant as a romantic gesture for some tosser who did not even remotely deserve it, deserve her.

“The office doorman said he hadn’t been there for hours. He left at five. Right after he called me.” She pauses, as though collecting herself. “He’s with her. Whoever she is.”

“You don’t know?”

“I know it doesn’t matter. I know that if it isn’t this one it will be another. He had a bit of a reputation, you see. When I met him, Miranda warned me… but he told me it would be different with us. That he had finally met someone who made him want to settle down. And I… I convinced myself that he was telling the truth because after everything I’ve been through, I so desperately wanted to believe in him. In us.” She puts her head in her hands, and Jon moves closer, _ so close _ , to her so that there is no distance between them at all, awkwardly patting her back--which is completely bare, he realizes. But he hardly has time to register it, because then she turns toward him, and he pulls her into his arms, murmuring meaningless reassurances, his head too full of the scent of her, the nearness of her, for him to think about  _ restraint _ or anything else.

“It isn’t supposed to be like this,” she says quietly, after a moment, pulling away from him to wipe her eyes.

" No, sweet girl, it isn’t.”

“I just don’t understand what I did wrong.”

“You did nothing wrong, Sansa,” he tells her. “It’s on him. He’s the idiot who ruined things between you, not you. He could have had the most amazing woman in the world and he fucked it up.” 

“You mean that?” she looks at him with a watery smile.

“Yeah, I do. And if he is too stupid to see that, to see what is right in front of him, then he doesn’t come close to deserving you.” For some reason, he can not begin to fathom, he leans down and lightly brushes his lips against her forehead. It is a brotherly gesture, he tells himself, or it would be, if his lips didn’t linger for perhaps a  _ second _ too long. 

They sit together in silence, the only sound her quiet sniffles, as he rubs small circles on her back. He wishes that he could do something, anything, to make her feel better. But he is relatively useless in this department. He has always been rubbish at talking to girls—Ygritte used to tease him about it when they were getting along and throw it in his face when they weren’t. “You know nothing, Jon Snow. And fucking less than that about women,” she had yelled at him one night when they had been fighting about something—impossible to say what, there had been too many screaming matches about too many things. She had then told him to fuck off and then came back either drunk or sobered up and they said sorry between kisses and promised not to fight about something so stupid again. And maybe they wouldn’t, for about a week, and then, inevitably, the whole scene would play out again. She had been right, though, about talking to girls, and this wasn’t just any girl. This was  _ Sansa Stark _ .

“If you need a place to stay…” he offers. And it is possibly the daftest thing that that he has ever said, because there is no way that  _ restraint  _ is going to be an option living with her, here, in this small one bedroom flat. But she is looking at him with such gratitude that he would not take back a syllable of it. 

“Really?” she asks. “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“Really. It’s not a problem.”

“It would just be until I could get my footing, find a place of my own.”

“Of course,” he says. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you.” 

“I’ll help with rent.”

He doesn’t want to admit that he could use the extra money, doesn’t want to tell her how tight things have gotten since he broke things off with Dany. Sansa’s got her own problems to worry about; she doesn’t need to concern herself with his bullshit. And because she is Sansa, she would want to help him and he can’t let her worry about him like that, can’t let her pity him. So he just says that it isn’t necessary, but doesn’t fight too hard when she insists. 

And when she smiles and tells him he’s the best, he doesn’t fight that too hard either, because from the way that she is looking at him, like he’s a knight in shining armor that has just ridden to rescue her from some tower, he can tell that she means it, and that, well, that means everything to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He only goes with her to her flat to get some things because she asks him to, with such vulnerability in the depths of her blue eyes that he would have been unable to say no, even if he wanted to. As if the thought to refuse her had ever crossed his mind. 

When he wakes up the next morning, Jon almost convinces himself that it was all a dream.  _ Almost _ . But he is curled up, cramped, on his tiny sofa, his back aching in a way that makes him feel absolutely ancient _ ,  _ even though he is _ only _ thirty-three. It doesn’t matter. It is worth it—absolutely fucking worth it—for her.

He creeps quietly around his flat. Making a cup of tea and waiting for her wake, not sure exactly what to expect when she does. He is trying to read the news on his phone, only understanding every third word or so, when she peeks out from the bedroom. Her hair is mussed and there are smudges of make-up beneath her eyes that his soap had failed to remove, a sheet wrapped around her and it is possibly the sexiest thing he has ever seen, so it takes him a full minute before he stupidly tells her that of course she can take a shower and that there is an extra towel in the linen closet in the bathroom and that he will see if he can find something for her to wear until she gets her clothes. 

He makes her a cup of tea while she cleans up, and when she emerges again, she is wearing the clothes he left on the bed for her, a pair of his sweatpants, which had shrunk in the dryer, too small on him to wear except for when he is absolutely desperate, and an old Winterfell high school sweatshirt, which—like so much of his life— is faded and shabby. She tells him is the most comfortable thing she has ever worn. The dress from the night before is on the floor in his room, and he is struck by the fact that in his old clothes, she looks just as beautiful. Maybe even more so.

He only goes with her to her flat to get some things because she asks him to, with such vulnerability in the depths of her blue eyes that he would have been unable to say no, even if he wanted to. As if the thought to refuse her had ever crossed his mind. 

Walking into the flat that she shared with Hardyng, Jon isn’t sure that all Sansa’s stuff will fit in his. The place is huge, and not just by city standards. “It will just be a minute,” she tells him. “Just need to grab a few things.” He is about to tell her not to worry, to take however long she needs, when Harry emerges from the bedroom demanding to know where the fuck she was last night. 

Harry isn’t supposed to be there. Sansa was sure he would be at the office, but here he is, fuming and looking rather worse for wear, not nearly as perfect as Jon remembered him.

“Where were _you_?” Sansa asks, the untouchable ice queen. How the fuck she manages to look  _ regal _ —he feels like an idiot, but it is the only word that fits—in his old clothes is beyond him. “I went to your office. I thought you said you had to work all night.”

“You were checking up on me?”

“I was surprising you, Harry. There’s a difference, you know.” She sounds almost bored, and had Jon not known her so long and so well, had he not observed her tells, the tightness around her eyes, the rigid jaw that betrayed her impassive expression, he might not believe this woman, so cool and unmoved, is the same one who had sobbed on his couch the night before while he uselessly held her, unable to give her the comfort she needed.

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I did. Your office. Your cell. I also texted you. You didn’t pick up. Or answer. I assumed you were” she pauses for dramatic effect, “busy.” The word is a blade, slicing the space between them.

Harry's face drops, looking momentarily defeated. “Babe, if you just let me explain.”

She holds up her hand. “Let’s save some time and a scene. I’ll just assume you have a very good story, Harry. One that I might have believed once, but which it is far too late for at this point. I just came for my things.”

“You’re leaving?”

“You already have.” She walks into the bedroom, and Jon hears a thud as she puts a suitcase on the bed.

Harry stands motionless for a few moments, dazed and unfocused, and then he suddenly seems to realize that Jon is in the room. He looks back at Sansa, as if only now registering what she was wearing, and then he approaches Jon, “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks.

Jon shrugs, doing his best to look nonchalant. He isn’t nearly as good at it as Sansa. “She asked me to come. So I did.”

“She spent the night with you?”

“She was upset. Came over to my place.” Harry’s eyes flash and he storms into the bedroom. It isn’t a lie. But Jon also knows that it isn’t the full truth, either. He follows Harry, pausing on the threshold, realizing that he probably should have been a bit clearer that nothing happened between him and Sansa, and realizing that now it is too late, would only make things worse to explain. He also hates to admit that part of him, the part of him of which he is  _ deeply _ ashamed, is glad that Harry misinterpreted him in exactly the right way.

He is pretty sure that the bedroom is almost as big as his entire flat. And there is the bed, where Harry and Sansa must have… he stops himself from finishing the thought because the jealousy is too much to bear. Instead, he wonders how many other women Harry fucked in that bed when Sansa was away, and that, it turns out, is a better thing for him to think about, because anger he can deal with. At least he can deal with it better than the envy that he cannot let himself admit.

Sansa is shoving shoes and clothes haphazardly into two very large suitcases, which are already almost full. “I’ll send Robb for the rest of my things,” she says, dumping an armload of clothes into the suitcase. Jon is reminded for a moment of Ygritte. But no, that was entirely different. Ygritte was a firestorm. Sansa is pure ice. “Your ring is on the nightstand. I don’t want it any more. Along with the rest of the jewelry you gave me.” She closes the suitcase with a finality that Jon didn’t know could be rung from a zipper.

Harry roughly grabs her arm. “What the hell is he doing here?" He points to Jon. "Did you fuck him?”

The words sting, but Sansa meets his wild eyes with a cool stare. “You don’t get to ask me that, Harry. You forfeited any right to know what goes on between my legs the moment you couldn’t keep what was between yours under control.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Jon says, stepping toward him, cracking his knuckles. “Now get your hands off her.”

“She’s my fiancée.”

“She’s your ex-fiancée,” Sansa says evenly. “In case it was unclear, Harry. We’re through.”

“As if I’d still want you, you filthy whore," he releases her with force that has her momentarily unbalanced. "Spreading your legs for the first pathetic little bastard you could find.”

Fuck restraint. Anger. Anger is easier. The crunching sound of Harry’s nose breaking is just as satisfying as Jon imagined it would be. He has been in his fair share of scrapes before, but he is not sure that it has ever felt so good to punch someone as it is to see Harry scrambling away from him on the floor, his hands to his nose, already bloody. It’s broken for sure. It’s perfect, arrogant aquiline form bent and crooked. Jon takes a step toward him, and he knows that he would punch the man again and again, but one glance at Sansa, at the look on her face, and he stops. Because Harry doesn’t matter, not anymore, the only thing that matters is her.

“Come on,” she says. “I’m done. Let’s go.” And the way she is looking at him tells him that Harry doesn’t matter to her anymore, either.

They are silent in the lift and he wonders what she is thinking about. 

With Ygritte, things never got really violent. At least not physically. At least not with each other. At least not that either of them would admit, not to each other, not to themselves, because they could at least pretend that it was a line they hadn't yet crossed. There was enough violence in their words, their looks, their accusations, they told themselves, no need for a physical assault. There had been times though, when he would slam his fist down on tables and countertops, once he punched a wall, and Ygritte had a habit of throwing things, books, plates, though not at him. He has a scar on his back, though, from a fight that started over whose turn it was to do the dishes. The plates had ended up shattered on the floor, and so had they—though he hadn’t realized how fully broken they were—her riding him,  _ hard _ , into reconciliation, a shard cutting into his back. 

At first, Val had been good for him. For a little while, at least. Before things with her, too, went bad. One night, when he was particularly wasted on the cheap Cabernet, he told her about the blowouts he used to have with Ygritte, the yelling, the cursing, the damage. She had rolled a joint and talked to him about meditation and breathing techniques and using I-Feel statements. She had majored in psych and helped him see how just how toxic, just how violent, things with Ygritte had actually been, how much he had suppressed, denied, ignored it. “It’s not anger that’s a problem. Anger is just an emotion, just like any other,” she had said. “It’s how you express it. How you use it. It’s not the feeling, it’s the behavior.” At first, he wasn’t sure he understood the difference. But he had tried, to express himself better.

_ “I feel hurt when you get stoned on nights when we have plans because I feel like you don’t enjoy spending time with me sober. Instead, I would appreciate it if we could have a few nights together without drugs.”  _

_ “I feel anxious when I don’t know where you are all night because I am worried that you are hurt and won’t come home at all. Instead, I would appreciate it if you checked in just to let me know that you are safe and okay.”  _

_ “I feel upset when I come home and you're high and I don’t know what you're on because I am concerned that I won’t know how to help you if something bad happens. Instead, I would appreciate it if you could leave me a note, just in case.” _

They didn’t fight the way that he had with Ygritte, but he wouldn’t say that it had worked either. 

_ “I feel sad because I’ve been watching you self destruct for a year, and I can’t do it anymore. Instead, I am going to have to leave.”  _

He had only gotten into one fight when he was with Dany. They had been at a bar, some old guy had been creeping on her. Usually she liked the attention, the affirmation that she was beautiful, desirable, liked the control it gave her over men. But this guy had been too much. Jon had asked him, nicely, to fuck off, but he hadn’t. So Jon has punched him. The bouncer had kicked them both out, and on the way home Dany wouldn’t stop  _ looking _ at him. As soon as they got into the apartment she was on him, kissing him roughly, pulling down his pants, sucking him off. Later, while he pounded into her, she closed his hand into a fist and licked his knuckles. It had all been really hot at the time. She had liked that he had punched that guy  _ for her.  _ And he had been looking,  _ aching _ , for another fight, though he hadn’t found one. It was only later that he realized what she liked was the control she had over him.

But Sansa, Sansa is different from all that. And he doesn't know how she would react. 

“Aren’t you afraid that he’ll call the police?” Sansa asks as they load her bags into the boot of his car. Of course, she would respond that way. Completely practical. She didn’t spend all those years down in Kings Landing in law school for nothing. “That was assault and battery. It could mean up to six months in prison. Fines can be as much as five thousand pound.” 

He shrugs. He doesn’t care about the consequences, about fines or prison time. No one puts their hands on her, talks to her that way. He certainly wasn’t going to address Harry using an I-Feel Statement. And Harry had that punch coming way before he opened his mouth. He was just lucky that Jon didn’t do worse. “I don’t think he will. A bloke like that would be too embarrassed to get the police involved.” Jon had met his type before, and is counting on his pride to outweigh his vindictiveness. “But if it comes to that, I’ll deal with it.” He says, slamming the boot shut.

“We’ll deal with it.” She says, taking his hand into hers. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Of course,” he replies. “Robb would kill me if I had let you go back there alone.” It is not a lie. But Jon knows that it is not the whole truth either. He didn’t do this for Robb.

He drives them back to his place and unloads the bags, carrying up the five story walkup to his flat.

“What’s your plan for the rest of the day?” she asks. “Sorry to take up so much of your morning.”

It is his day off and she’d called into work; he’d heard her arguing with her boss about taking the time off. Usually, he goes to the library and finds some books to read. If the day is nice, he might go to the park, sit on a bench, chain smoke now that he’d started up again. Most days he spends some time at the gym, working off some of that anxiety and aggression. Later meet his mates at the pub. “No plans,” he says, because those things aren’t so much plans as a way to pass the time. “You want to do something?” He hopes that it sounds casual, but knows that he probably doesn’t.

“I think I might just want to stay in.”

“That’s cool.” He stands awkwardly, not sure if she means that she wants to be by herself, or if she wants him to stay in with her. 

“I don’t feel much liking seeing other people right now.”

“Right,” he says. “Makes sense.” 

He is about to tell her that he will give her some time alone, because as much as he wants to be with her—in _every_ way he possibly can—he’ll give her what space he can in this one bedroom flat. 

But before he can speak, she asks, “Do you mind if we do take-away again tonight?”

Not I,  _ we _ . And the ‘we’ hits him, and for a moment all that it implies, all that it means, at least to him, leaves him speechless.

Still, he is worried that she has included him only out of obligation. Because it is his place, and she feels bad kicking him out. “I can bugger off for a while if you’d like some time alone.” He’ll be damned if he forces his company on her, no matter how desperately he never wants to leave her side. 

“No. I’d think I’d like it if you’d stay. I mean, if you don’t have plans. Don’t have anything better to do.” 

As if there could be anything better than being with her. 

“Whatever you need.”

“Thanks, Jon,” she says and she crosses the flat, and wraps her arms around him. And though he resists the impulse for a moment, he cannot help but respond, pulling her tighter to him than perhaps he should. He holds her for as long as she’ll let him, until she begins to pull away and he has no choice but to release her. “Thanks,” she repeats, “For everything.” 

And then she kisses him and he has no idea what to make of it. The kiss is light, chaste, and closed lipped and over almost before he registers it, a whisper, a hint, a flash, barely there and then gone. He has no idea what it means. It could be, he supposed, an indication of nothing more than familial affection, platonic and innocent, and devoid of anything other than friendly gratitude. But there is a possibility,  _ a chance _ , that it could be more than that. That the ‘we’ could come to mean everything he has dreamed for and never actually hoped would come to pass.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks about that kiss the rest of the day, while they hang around the apartment and eat chole, murgh makhani, and chicken vindaloo.

He thinks about that kiss the rest of the day, while they hang around the apartment and eat chole, murgh makhani, and chicken vindaloo.

“Harry hates Indian food,” Sansa tells him around a mouthful of curry. “What better way to celebrate my new found freedom.” Her smile is brittle, fragile, ready to snap at any moment. And he understands, because he knows better than almost anyone how much a person can love a trap, can resent freedom. So he nods, and his smile, too, is small and strained. He places his hand on hers, a gesture of comfort that asks nothing more, and he is grateful, relieved, when rather than pull away, she takes his hand in hers and squeezes it lightly. 

And though it is never repeated, he thinks about that kiss in the weeks that follow. 

It’s just  _ nice _ living Sansa, and he could get way too used to it if he will let himself, which he is petrified to do. Because living with her, like this, has turned his shabby little flat into a home. Coming back to her sitting on the couch reading one of those trashy romance novels she loves, smelling her shampoo in the bathroom after she takes a shower, her bringing him a cup of tea in the morning when she makes her own, having someone to watch movies with again, even though her taste is terrible. And the fact that he enjoys watching romantic comedies, as long as it's with her, just lets him know how lost he is. He is far gone, and he’s not sure that he is ever going to find his way back and doubts that he ever wants to.

After all those years hanging around the Starks, he thought he knew everything there was to know about her, but everyday he learns something new. She likes cherry tomatoes if they are cut in half, but not if they are whole. She has a bad habit of leaving her towel on the bed after a shower, and he usually winds up hanging it up for her, trying not to think much about the parts of her that it has rubbed dry. She gets fed up with text messages, and would rather just talk, much to Robb and Arya’s annoyance. She can’t throw out plastic bags because she hates the waste, and soon there is a hoard of them beneath the kitchen sink. When they watch movies, she cries at the sad and the happy parts, and he starts keeping a box of Klenex next to the couch. She is an excellent baker, but a terrible cook, and how she can make a beautiful loaf of bread and then burn toast is a mystery to him. But she does, the toast so bad that the smoke detectors go off and they have to open the windows to the winter air just to dispel the smell. 

With each discovery, he is more and more in love with her. 

Robb comes by, as promised, with the rest of her things. At least the things not relegated to storage. He gives Jon a  _ look _ , and Jon tries to appear as innocent as possible, which probably succeeds only at making him seem more guilty. Because Robb doesn’t stop glaring until he sees the rumpled blanket and pillow on the couch—which Jon has gotten used to sleeping on, and really it isn’t all that bad, not that much of a sacrifice, if it means that he gets to fall asleep knowing that she is in the next room. 

Robb tells Sansa that she is welcome to move into his place. He and Jayne have plenty of room, and Jon tries not to take it as an insult. Robb means well, he knows, and he gets why he might not be thrilled that his little sister has decided to become flatmates with his best friend. But he can’t help but be furious at Robb for even offering because he is terrified that Sansa might accept, that she might leave. No matter how many times he tells himself that it is only temporary, that she herself told him that she is only staying with him until she can find another place, he can’t help but want her stay. Because whatever it is they have, he is not sure what it will do to him to have to give it up, but he knows that he will give her up, if it turns out that’s what she wants. 

But Sansa declines Robb’s offer, reminding him of the baby on the way that will make his flat feel a whole lot smaller. Plus, she tells him, she is comfortable here, with Jon. And Jon tries not to let it show how much that means to him, tries to dim the idiotic smile that overtakes him. 

When, a few days later, Jon gets a text from Robb, asking him to meet up for beers, he isn’t exactly surprised.

“What’s going on between you and my sister?” Robb asks, almost immediately after they get their pints.

“Nothing.” It isn’t exactly the truth. There is  _ something _ going on between them. But hell if he knows exactly what that is. What are they? Flatmates? Friends? Family? He isn’t even sure that she knows, but all he has been doing is following her lead. “She needed a place to stay is all. After everything with Hardyng.”

The mention of Hardyng has the desired effect, redirecting Robb’s overprotective big brother rage toward someone who, in Jon’s opinion at least, is a much more deserving target.

“I would give anything to have been the one to punch that asshole.” 

“Yeah. That actually probably wasn’t my finest moment.”

It had been a month ago, maybe, not long after Sansa had moved in with him, that he had come home from the gym—he had felt like shit, needed to quit smoking again, it was really interfering with his cardio training—and heard Sansa talking quietly on the phone. She was in the bedroom, the door closed. He wasn’t sure that she had heard him, so he had contemplated going downstairs or to the hallway at least to give her a little privacy.

“No, Harry. I am not going to let you blackmail me into seeing you.” 

Jon had paused. She was talking to Hardyng. He knew that he should probably fuck off and give her some privacy, let her deal with it herself or come to him if she needed him. But he didn’t. He couldn’t, so he had stood quietly and listened at the door like a fucking creep. 

“Yes. That’s exactly what this is… I don’t care if it’s only lunch… Listen, you can press charges if you like, but we both know how it is likely to turn out.” 

Jon had felt his stomach drop, grow nauseous. Gods, he was an idiot. That asshole had been trying to use Jon, use that very well deserved punch, to wheedle his way back to Sansa.

He was such a tosser for not thinking before he acted, for getting her into this situation. The punch had not been _that_ satisfying, not for her to have to deal with Hardyng now.

He was such an idiot for not anticipating that something like this could, would, happen. 

“Just _listen_ to me. I’ll get someone from the firm to defend him, probably Ros--she still owes me a favor from a case I helped her with last year. And you know what will happen then. It’s a small thing, assault and battery. Maximum a few months in jail, a pretty small fine. And he doesn’t have a record, so he there is a real good chance the judge wouldn’t sentence him to any time. Wouldn’t usually be newsworthy, unless it involves the heir presumptive to Arryn fortune. Then there might be some digging. Ros will see to that. Especially if the thing goes to trial. And if they offer him a deal that is anything less than a slap of the wrist--we’re talking mandatory community service, maybe a few anger management classes, no jail, no fine, the charges stay off his record-- I’ll personally make sure that it does. And it will all be dragged into the open. The affairs. The checks you pay out every month. The kids…. I’m not making threats, Harry. I’m telling you what will happen if you pursue this course of action. I’m letting you know so that you can make an informed decision about how to move forward. If you think a fine is worth having your name smeared across every tabloid from here to Dorne, then press charges… I don’t care what you tell the newspapers about our engagement ending. Say that I left you for another man. Make yourself the hero or the victim or whatever. You were always far better at coming up with stories than I…” She said it so softly, so sadly, that Jon barely made it out. “Goodbye, Harry. Don’t call me again.”

After he had heard her hang up the phones, he had stood outside the door for a minute, feeling even more like shit, His hands were in fists that he didn't remember making. He had wanted to punch something. If not Harry again, then something else. But then he had thought of Sansa, who was just on the other side of that door, and of what she has just done for him, and he figured she needed him more than he needed to let off steam by doing something stupid, something destructive. So he had taken two deep, what he hoped would be calming breaths, and then lightly, gently, knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Sansa called. She was sitting on the bed, her phone in her lap. She was wearing an old sweater and a pair of flannel pants. That was another thing he had learned about her. When they were younger, he remembered her always dressing nicely, doing her hair, putting on makeup, even if it was just to hang around the house. But now, as soon as she got home, one of the first things she always did was change out of her work clothes, throw her hair up into a ponytail or messy bun, wash her face. He wondered what had caused the change in her, what made her stop trying so hard to be perfect, when there wasn’t anyone there to judge. Maybe she had learned to let herself go, to relax, even if just for a little. Maybe she had learned that she was perfect no matter what she was wearing.

“Hey,” he said, standing in the doorway, unable to fully enter the room, to look at her. He had been burning with shame. And anger. At Hardyng. At himself. 

“Hi,” she replied, and he forced himself to look up from where he was staring at his shoes, to meet her gaze. She looked so tired. Weary, and he couldn’t imagine what that phone call took from her. How he would feel talking to Val or Ygritte or Dany. Especially a talk like that.

He had debated for a moment whether he should tell her, let her know that he had heard her conversation with Harry, admit to eavesdropping. But as much as he really didn’t want her to know how much of a jerk he has been, he also couldn’t, wouldn’t, lie to her.

“That was Harry?” he asked, a vague admission of guilt. Not nearly enough. But he was used to that, not being enough.

“Yeah,” she said. “He is threatening to go to the police. Press charges. I don’t think he will though. He’s got way more to lose than to gain from that.”

“Thanks, Sansa. For dealing with that,” he slumped on the bed next to her. 

“It’s nothing,” she had said, though the slight crack in her voice suggested otherwise. “You did it to protect me. I’m just returning the favor.”

“Yeah. Well. I’m sorry you had to. Wish I could take it all back.” It was completely inadequate, but it was all he had to offer her.

“I know,” she said simply, and she had reached out and squeezed his arm. “I appreciate that you did that for me. And I know why you did, Jon,” she said. “I get it. I wanted to hit him myself. But don’t do it again. It’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.” 

And Jon was fairly certain in that moment that if anyone wasn’t worth it, it was him. He wasn’t worth the forgiveness, the  _ kindness _ , that she had shown him. But in that moment, he was determined that he was going to be. One day, he would be worth it. 

He just hoped that she’d still be around when he was.

He doesn’t tell any of this to Robb, though. Doesn't talk to him about his shame, his guilt, his resolve to do better, to be better. They drink another pint, and Jon thinks that he is in the clear until Robb gives him a quick hug goodbye, promising that they will get together at least a few more times before the baby comes. 

“Be careful with her,” he says, and Jon doesn’t need clarification to know exactly who Robb is talking about--for him, there is only one  _ her _ . “She’s been through a lot, you know. Joffrey, Ramsay. She’s had a tough go of it.” He looks pointedly at his friend. “And be careful with yourself, too. You’ve been through your fair share of it, too.” He pauses, and then smiles, half to Jon, half to himself. “And I’ve got this baby coming. If you two fuck each other up, I’m not sure that I’m going to have the energy to sort it all out. It might be up to Arya, and you know how well that is likely to go.” 

Jon wants to protest, to insist again that there is nothing going on. But Robb is his oldest friend, and he knows Jon better than anyone, so Jon already knows it will be futile. So instead, he says, “If she’ll let me. It’s up to her.” It is not exactly a full confession of everything he feels for Sansa, but it’s close, and he holds out his hand to Robb. 

Robb’s smile widens. “I know you will.” It is not exactly an official blessing, but it’s close, and Robb takes Jon’s hand, giving it a firm shake before pulling him in for another quick hug. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have noticed, the length of this story continues to grow, and that is due, in large part, to all of the very kind comments. For those readers, who have been generous enough to take the time to comment, thank you very much. I appreciate every one. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes an appointment to see Dr. Lewin, who gives him a referral for a therapist. He doesn’t tell anyone. Not Sansa. Not Robb. Certainly not the mates he meets up with for drinks at Castle Black some nights when Sansa is working late and he doesn’t feel like being alone. He is nervous even asking Lewin for the referral. He doesn’t know anyone who has been to a shrink. He isn’t mad. He might have some issues, but it’s not like he’s crazy or anything. He isn’t even sure what makes him go. Except that he knows that something has to change and he supposes that getting his head on straighter seems like as good a place as any to start. And he isn’t really sure how to do that on his own. So he decides to ask for help, no matter how humiliating it is.

Jon makes an appointment to see Dr. Lewin, who gives him a referral for a therapist. He doesn’t tell anyone. Not Sansa. Not Robb. Certainly not the mates he meets up with for drinks at Castle Black some nights when Sansa is working late and he doesn’t feel like being alone. He is nervous even asking Lewin for the referral. He doesn’t know anyone who has been to a shrink. He isn’t mad. He might have some issues, but it’s not like he’s crazy or anything. He isn’t even sure what makes him go. Except that he knows that something has to change and he supposes that getting his head on straighter seems like as good a place as any to start. And he isn’t really sure how to do that on his own. So he decides to ask for help, no matter how humiliating it is. 

And it turns out that it isn’t really that humiliating at all. Dr. Lewin is understanding. He always has been, since Jon was kid. And he even recommends someone. An old friend and a good chap, Lewin says.

At first, Jon isn’t sure what to make of Dr. Seaworth, who insists that Jon call him Davos. He has never been to therapy before, and he is not sure that he is doing it  _ right _ . It isn’t anything like what he’s seen in movies and on tv. There’s no couch, no Rorschach test, no dream journal. He just sits across from the old man and answers questions about his week, what it was like to grow up just he and his mum, about his past relationships, about his father, who had been married to another woman, had another family, and had never been a part of Jon’s life. Davos asks Jon about what it was like to lose his mother when he was only eighteen and about how he had coped with it. He hadn’t, Jon realized. Not really. Not in any way that counted.

They talk about Jon’s past relationships. About his fights with Ygritte, about what had happened with Val, about had bad things had gotten with Dany. 

He is embarrassed to talk about these things. He tells things to Davos that he hasn’t told  _ anyone _ , even Robb. But it also feels good to say them, to fully express his grief about his mum’s death, his anger at his father, the culpability he feels for every single one of his relationships imploding in the way they had. How inadequate it had all made him feel. Like he had always failed, disappointed, fallen short. Had never really been wanted. 

Davos talks with him about strategies for managing his anger, his anxiety, his self-esteem. He validates what Jon is feeling and pushes him toward introspection. It can be hard,  _ really hard _ , and some days he leaves feeling absolutely exhausted or like he had just been beat up, run an emotional marathon. But better, too, somehow, so he suppose it’s working, at least a little. He still has a long way to go, but he’s willing to grind it out. Because she deserves it. 

And, for one of the first times in his adult life, he thinks  _ he _ might deserve it too.

“So, tell me about the woman you are living with now,” Davos says.

“Sansa?” Jon asks, knowing that Davos will see through him in less than a minute. He always does. “She’s Robb’s little sis. Got out of a bad relationship a couple months back. Didn’t have a place to stay, so I told her she could crash with me.” He tries to make it sound as casual, as innocuous, as possible, knowing that he has probably failed.

”Hmm,” Davos replies. Jon hates it when he responds that way, because, inevitably, it leads to Jon spilling his guts and secrets he would much rather keep hidden. “And if she’s Robb’s sister, why isn’t she staying with him?”

“Robb’s wife is having a baby in a little over a month. She probably doesn’t want to be a burden on them.”

“But she doesn’t mind being a burden on you?”

“She’s not one.” He says it too quickly, and from the way Davos is looking at him, Jon knows that he knows. Everything, most likely.

“I see.” 

“It’s nice. Having her around.” 

“Why?”

Because I am desperately in  _ love _ with her, Jon should say, probably part of him wants to. But instead he finds himself talking about Sansa’s baking and her financial contributions. Each month she has given him a check and no indication of when she is going to leave. Both are reassuring.

“It’s just nice. She’s nice,” he finishes lamely.

“Is it hard living with her, feeling about her the way you do?” Jon is not surprised when the trap closes shut. Still, he is not sure he likes being caught out. 

“No,” he says, followed quickly by “Yes.” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. I mean, I guess it’s hard to be around her constantly and not be  _ with _ her. But I also don’t want to lose her. Not even the little bit I have.” 

“Does she know how you feel?” 

“Probably.” 

“Probably?” 

“Well, I haven’t exactly told her. But she’s got to know.” 

“Why haven’t you told her?” 

The question stops him. Because he knows what the answer should be: she just got out of a tough relationship. He doesn’t want to pressure her or make living with him awkward for her. That he hasn’t told her for her sake. To protect her. To give her space. All that sounds good, sounds right, but he knows that’s not the  _ real _ reason. Not entirely anyway. Because a big part of what is holding him back is that he is afraid that she doesn’t feel the same, that she might find him unworthy of her. Or worse, that she does, maybe, against all odds, against all hope, feel the same way he does, or at least could, with time, and that he will fuck it up. The way that he has every relationship he’s been in. 

“I’m scared,” he says feeling slightly ridiculous, but knowing that it is the absolute truth. 

“Scared of what?” 

So he tells Davos everything. Admits all of his fears. His insecurities. He talks for longer than he imagined possible, Davos looking at him with those kind green eyes of his. “I don’t know,” he says at last. “I… I just seem to lose everyone I care about. My mum, Ygritte, Val, even Dany. Guess I’m scared that if I say how much she means to me, I’ll lose her too. Eventually, at least.” 

“You don’t have to say anything yet,” Davos says. “But I think you might want to at some point. Best for both of you, I think, if you are honest with yourself. And with her.”

He knows Davos is right. That he should just  _ tell _ her. Let her decide if she wants to live as platonic roommates with a man who is absolutely, desperately, irrevocably in love with her. But he just can’t. Not yet at least. 

“Do you think it’s fair to let this young woman live with you without being upfront about how you feel?” Davos continues. 

Jon doesn’t say anything. Not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because he does. 

That night, when he gets back to the flat, Sansa is making a cup of tea. 

“Hey,” she says brightly as he enters, and then she sees his face. “Is everything okay?” she asks, and he wonders how miserable he must look to get that kind of reaction from her. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Tough evening.” 

“I can make you one, too,” she says, gesturing toward her mug. “My mom always used to give me tea when I was upset, and for some crazy reason, it always worked. Always made me feel better.” How many cups of tea did she make, he wondered, after the car accident. 

“I remember,” he said softly. “That would be great, actually.” Caitlin had never been his biggest fan, nor he hers. But she had been kind to him after his mother died. Not quite like a mother to him, but at least kind. 

Once the tea is steeped, he follows her to the sofa. She moves his pillow and blanket to the side and curls up, holding her mug with both hands. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

He exhales. “It is kind of a long story. So, I’ve been seeing someone.” And then he stops, because he can’t help but notice the way that her face falls, for just a moment, before she recomposes it into a smile. It is not a real smile--he has come to cherish those too much over the last few months to be fooled--but it is a reasonable facsimile, wide and radiant. He can’t let himself think about what it all might mean, because if he does, he might tell her everything. Here and now and without reservation. And as he discussed with Davos today, he is just not ready to. But he thinks he may be soon. At not for the first time, he lets himself hope that she might want to hear what he has to tell her. 

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Jon. I hope everything is okay? You will have to tell me all about her. And I’m so sorry. I’ll be out of here soon. I swear.” 

“No,” he says, perhaps too quickly. “No. It’s not like that. Not a girlfriend or anything. A therapist.” He looks into his cup, a bit ashamed, though he is not sure if it is because he has been going to Davos or because he didn’t tell her about it until now. 

“Well, I mean, that’s good too,” she says, and when he looks at her again, her smile is real. “I’ve found it so incredibly helpful.” 

“You go to one?” 

“Since mom and dad. And then after Ramsey I just didn’t stop going. I only see her about once a month now.” 

“I didn’t know.” 

“Weird I didn’t mention it,” she takes a sip of her tea. “Anyway, tough session today?” 

“You could say that.” 

“The best therapists have a knack for that. Brienne always calls me on my bullshit. Which I appreciate. I really do. But sometimes it is hard to hear.’ 

“No kidding,” he says.

“I think it’s good, though. That you are going. If it helps, I mean.” Her hand is warm from the tea mug when it finds his, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “Sometimes we just need someone objective to help us see the things about ourselves we can’t.” 

He nods. And he wonders what her therapist thinks when she sees Sansa. Because Jon is a lot of things when it comes to her, but objective is absolutely not one of them. 

He gets a call from Val. It is entirely unexpected, and he almost doesn’t answer because he didn’t recognize the number. But for some reason he does, and it’s her on the other end. 

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.” He isn’t sure what else to say. He didn’t think he would ever talk to her again. Hearing her voice, he realizes that he didn’t think she would live this long. 

“It’s Val.”

“I know.”

“I need to ask you a favor.”

“Okay.”

“Can you come to see me?” 

She tells him the name of the sober living house where she is staying, gives him the address, tells him the visiting hours.

He goes one day after work. Both Sansa and Davos tell him he should, if he wants to. If he thinks he is ready. 

After signing in and being checked for contraband, Jon is led into a visitor’s room. Val is thin, frail, with dark smudges under her eyes, but she looks better than she had the last time he had seen her, and in her smile there is  _ almost _ something of the woman he remembers.

“Thanks for coming,” she says.

“It’s no problem.”

“No. Really. It means a lot to me.” She takes a deep breath and her eyes meet his. “I have to apologize.”

“You don’t.”

“Yes. I do. It’s Step 9. My actions were hurtful to you and I need to take responsibility, make amends.” She says it like she is reading it out of a pamphlet. She probably has at some point. But then she sighs, looks down at her hands. “You and Dalla got the worst of it. She’s still not talking to me, which, believe me, I understand.”

“She’ll come around,” he says gently. Val and her sister had always been close, he remembers. But when things got bad, Dalla had cut Val out of her life. It hadn’t been cruel; it had been an act of survival. The same way his leaving had been, he tells himself, though it’s not enough to keep the guilt from clawing through him.

“I hope so. Hope that I get myself to a place where she can. Anyway, thanks, Jon, for letting me say sorry to you. And I am. Sorry, I mean. For everything I put you through. Sorry that things got so bad, with me, with us.” She exhales, “You deserved better.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry too,” he says. “Could have done more to help you. Should have. I saw what was happening…” he trails off.

She shakes her head. “None of it was your fault.”

“Some of it was. Has to be. We were supposed to be partners, Val. I’m not sure either of us did a particularly good job of it.” He is silent. “I should have done more. Tried to get you help.  _ Something _ . I gave up on you, and I shouldn’t have.” 

“You wouldn’t have been able to. Help, I mean. I wasn’t ready. Can’t help someone who doesn’t want it.”

“I could have tried.”

“Jon,” she says, looking at him steadily. “You did. This isn’t on you.” 

He is allowed to stay for an hour, and isn’t there quite that long, but they talk for a while. She tells him about hitting bottom, her recovery, that she has been clean for nine months and thirteen days. He tells her about Davos, and she tells him that it is great he is getting some help.

“Are you happy?” she asks.

“Getting there.” 

“Yeah. Me too.” 

They say their goodbyes, and he is about to leave, but he turns back to her. “If it’s my forgiveness you need, Val, you’ve got it. Just do me one favor, yeah?” She presses her lips together and nods. “Take care of yourself.” 

“I’ll try,” she says. “Everyday I try.” She pauses for a moment. “Jon,” her voice is surprisingly soft. “You take care of yourself, too. You deserve it. After everything. You deserve to be happy. Hope you find someone who can do that for you.” “Thanks,” he says. He doesn’t tell her that he thinks he has found someone—she doesn’t need to hear it—but that he is also learning that he really needs to be happy with himself first, that if he isn’t, even Sansa isn’t  _ really _ going to change things with him. Not in the ways that matter most. “Thanks for getting in touch.” And he means it, because as he leaves, he feels lighter than he has in years as he walks back to his flat, smiling at the thought of Sansa sitting at the table, working on her laptop, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, a cup of tea at her elbow, waiting for him to come home. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa leaves him a message on his cell while he is working at the garage. She is the only person in the world who leaves voicemails anymore and he loves her for it. And he gets it, too, though he would still always rather text, because though she doesn’t say exactly what is going on, her voice conveys bubbling excitement that could not be captured through writing.
> 
> She tells him that she has some great news and asks him if he can do dinner that night at a restaurant with an intimidatingly French and fancy sounding name. Not the sort of place that he would ever think of going on his own. But his fucking elation that she wants to celebrate whatever this news is with him outweighs his insecurity, his anxiety, about going to a place where he is certain he will feel inadequate, outclassed. Because if nothing else, he will be there with her and that is all that matters. 

Sansa leaves him a message on his cell while he is working at the garage. She is the only person in the world who leaves voicemails anymore and he loves her for it. And he gets it, too, though he would still always rather text, because though she doesn’t say exactly what is going on, her voice conveys bubbling excitement that could not be captured through writing.

She tells him that she has some great news and asks him if he can do dinner that night at a restaurant with an intimidatingly French and fancy sounding name. Not the sort of place that he would  _ ever _ think of going on his own. But his fucking  _ elation _ that she wants to celebrate whatever this news is with him outweighs his insecurity, his anxiety, about going to a place where he is certain he will feel inadequate, outclassed. Because if nothing else, he will be there with her and that is all that matters. 

And he loves her for the way she adds that she wants to take him out, so casually, so lightly, in a way that is just so Sansa. He knows that she knows, or at the very least suspects, that he is not in great financial shape. It’s embarrassing, sure. He wishes he had the money to buy her whatever extravagant meal she wanted--she deserves that and so much more--but he is not about to let stupid masculine pride get in the way of her night. 

Gods, he loves her. 

He goes light at the gym, makes sure that he is back to their flat with plenty of time to shower. Afterward, he looks at himself in the mirror. He has gone a while without a haircut, and his curls are wild, and it looks a mess. There isn’t anything to be done about it now, though, he shrugs and pulls it back into a knot, hoping that he looks at least presentable as he trims his beard, trying to get that into some sort of order as well.

He only has one suit, shoved to the back of a closet that Sansa has almost completely taken over—which is fine by him, he’d live out of a laundry basket with no problem if it meant that he gets to live with her. He’d had to get it for Robb’s wedding and wouldn’t have been able to afford it, except that Mr. Stark has footed the bill. Jon had been relieved, but insisted he pay anyway, because he was pretty sure that’s how those sorts of things were done, and just hoped that he wasn’t being all that persuasive. Ned had smiled at Jon and told him that every man needs at least one good suit and that he was pleased to buy Jon his first.

When Sansa comes home, he has been watching YouTube tutorials trying to figure out what the hell to do with his tie. She eyes him with a grin and insists that she needs to change. He thinks that she looks perfect already, but he always thinks she looks perfect. When she emerges from the bedroom, she is absolutely stunning. She has let her hair down from the bun it had been pulled back in, and it now hangs in loose autumn waves around her. She has on a pair of strappy heels that make her taller than he is and a black dress that hugs every curve. He is envious of the fabric for getting to be so close to her skin and he can’t help but stare stupidly, his fingers fumbling with the ends of the thin black tie that he still can’t figure out how the fuck to knot. 

“You look handsome,” she says with a smile. 

He feels like an idiot. He never wears suits, and it’s uncomfortable, unnatural. It’s not  _ him _ . But the way she is smiling as she walks over to him, the way she murmurs “let me help you with that,” as she takes the ends of the tie in both hands and does something that turns into a slim knot. He has no idea what, though, because all he can focus on is the sound of her breath and the smell of her hair and how close she is and the fact that he would wear a suit every damn day of the rest of his life it meant that he got to have this moment with her. And then she is saying “there” and her fingers brush down his chest, adjusting the tie’s placement, and as she steps away and he mumbles a thank you and tells her that she looks gorgeous, which is such an understatement, but there are literally no  _ words _ that could capture how beautiful she is, and her smile widens in pleasure at the compliment. 

They take an Uber to the restaurant, which is across town and when Jon enters, he knows immediately that he doesn’t belong anywhere near a place like this. The dining room is ornate, with towering floral arrangements, and there is someone there right away to take his coat, which suddenly seems incredibly shabby, so he gives it up reluctantly, thinking, too, about the pack of cigarettes shoved in its pocket and wanting a smoke if only to escape this place where he clearly doesn’t fit. The maître d', apologizing profusely, invites madame and monsieur to enjoy an aperitif while they wait for their table, which is not quite ready. No one has ever called him  _ monsieur _ before, and he doesn’t think that he likes it. But Sansa seems at ease, and she rests her hand lightly on his forearm, and that soothes him, reassures him that, if nothing else, he belongs with her. And really nothing else than that matters. 

The bartender hands them a drink menu and Jon chokes on the prices; a cocktail costs more than he is comfortable spending on an entire meal most times he goes out. And he doesn’t know half of the ingredients in most of the drinks, but Sansa orders a French 75 and he almost orders the same, but the Boulevardier has whiskey in it, and he knows he likes that, so he decides to go with it, and the bartender tells him that it is an excellent choice, even though he knows he has mispronounced the name. 

“So, you going to tell me what this is all about?” he asks her with a grin. 

She had refused to tell him at the flat or in the car, but now she positively beams at him. “The Lannister case.” She had been at the office late for weeks, coming home with piles of files to read through, writing on her laptop way after he had said that he was going to bed. He would lay awake on the couch and listen to the turning of pages, the light clicking of her keyboard. She had told him that she was working on some very big class action suit against the Lannister Corporation. “They settled. For a lot. Exactly the outcome we were hoping for.” 

“That’s great.” 

“Isn’t it?” Her smile widened. “I am completely exhausted. But also so happy.” 

“You worked hard. You deserve it.”

“Thanks. And thanks for coming with me to celebrate. It means a lot,” she says.

“I wouldn’t miss it. Not for all the world,” he says. The fact that she asked him to share this night with her, not Robb, not Marg or one of her other friends, but  _ him _ , well that in and of itself is more than enough to make up for the awkwardness of the suit and his coat and overpriced drinks. His eyes hold hers, and he knows that he should look away, but he can’t and he notices the way a blush creeps up into her cheeks and she bites her lower lip, and he wonders if he is blushing too, and then the bartender puts their drinks down and they both, abruptly, look away. 

“We should toast, or something,” he says, awkwardly, picking up his drink. “To you,” he says, “for being amazing.” He wishes that he could have thought of something more poetic, more meaningful, more profound, just better. But she smiles at him, and their glasses clink together and he doesn’t think about how expensive the drink is or how fancy the restaurant is or how lame his toast was, because he doesn’t think about anything but her.

They drink their cocktails and then are led to a table. The dining room is vast, with high coffered ceilings and elegant arches framing the space. But the table he follows Sansa to is intimate, tucked into a corner. They are seated together on a banquette, next to, rather than across from each other. There is a bottle of champagne already chilling in a bucket beside the table. “Compliments of Mr. Baelish,” the sommelier explains, as he pours them both a glass. “An excellent vintage. Please enjoy.” 

And Jon notices that, for the first time, Sansa’s face falls a bit. “I really wish he wouldn’t,” she says, quietly, almost to herself, but it doesn’t stop her from taking a long sip from the glass. 

They order their food and Jon tries to ignore the prices, because he knows he won’t be able to enjoy the meal if he thinks about how much it costs, and more than anything he wants to enjoy every second of this meal with her. He reminds himself that she invited him, that she wanted to share this with him, that she, at least, thinks he is worthy of it, and he should too. And when the food comes, the scallop tartare and roasted squab he had ordered are so good that he almost thinks it’s worth the price.  _ Almost _ . But that could also be because they are half way through the bottle of Pinot she had ordered after they finished the champagne and he is definitely more than a little drunk from the wine and absolutely intoxicated from being so close to her, her body angled toward him, her arm brushing against his, leaning in to him as she feeds him a forkful of truffle and potato crusted halibut that she insists he  _ has _ to try. And he thinks that maybe he should tell her how he feels. But he hesitates, because tonight is about her, celebrating her success, and he shouldn’t make it about him. Besides, while the wine has made him braver than he otherwise would be, he still has enough sense to know that he should probably say what he needs to when he is a bit more sober. Still when he glances at her and she smiles at him, her eyes bright in the candle light, he almost breaks, almost starts to speak, almost gives voice to what his heart has been screaming for weeks with every beat. 

“Jon?”

He  _ knows _ that voice, and he goes absolutely rigid, his head suddenly feeling completely clear. The haze of the wine and love dispelled, gone, like his smile, in an instant. 

He turns and there she is, dressed in white—she was always in white or black, violent swings of color and mood—a man, older, but his lined face still handsome, behind her. He looks rich and he probably is. Jon remembers Dany patting his cheek and telling him that it was a good thing he was so pretty. When he had asked her why, she had replied that she only dated men who were pretty or rich. It was best if they were both, she said, but he would do. She had played it off as a joke, but he still remembered how small, how inadequate, it had made him feel.

He can’t believe he didn’t see her before, but then he knows exactly why he didn’t. Because all night, he has been so caught up in Sansa that the restaurant could have burned down around him and he probably would not have noticed.

And from the way that Dany is looking at him—the tightness around her mouth, the corners pushed slightly down, her nose pinched, eyebrows drawn together—she looks like she might do just that. He knows that look, lived with it for months, doing everything he could think of to replace it with a smile. He knows that she has seen him with Sansa, the way they have been together tonight. 

“Dany,” he says, and he hates the way his voice sounds, choked and placating, apologetic, even though he  _ knows _ that he has nothing to apologize for. They have been broken up for close to a year now—and dated for less than that—but he still feels like she has caught him doing something he shouldn’t be. He knows that at this point he owes her nothing, but it is like his body, his voice, his brain are all responding on instinct, returning to patterns that became well worn during their time together. 

“I  _ thought _ it was you,” she continued. “But then I thought, surely not. Not  _ here _ . Not  _ Jon _ . But here you are. And who is this?” She asks, as if noticing Sansa for the first time. 

Sansa meets her gaze, her chin jutting out slightly. “Sansa. Sansa Stark.”

Dany’s smile is closed lipped and brittle, hardly a smile at all. “I see.” And Jon thinks about all the fights they had about the time he had spent with the Starks. All the things she had accused him off. All the times that she had told him that they weren’t his family--they never really had been, she’d said-- and now she was. The choice she had given him: you can choose them or me. It was the only thing they ever fought about, she had told him. It wasn’t entirely true, but she had convinced herself that it was. They didn’t like her, she had said, and that was true, though both Robb and Arya had resigned themselves to Dany if she was what made him happy. But Dany just couldn’t accept them, what they meant to him, that they didn’t worship her the same way everyone else seemed to. If he just stopped spending so much time with the family that had taken him in after his mother had died, she promised, they could be happy. If he didn’t, she threatened, she didn’t think that they could be together. He was her whole world, she had told him, and she wouldn't settle for being less, shouldn’t be less than his. She shouldn't have to share his love with anyone. She gave him a choice and he had made his. 

“The car is waiting, princess,” the man says smoothly in a tone Jon remembesrs adopting more than once to try to calm her. 

“It can wait,” she snaps, before rearranging her face into something that is supposed to resemble a smile. Most people would probably think it was. But he knows her better than that, had spent months studying her features, trying to decipher what she was thinking, what she wanted, by the slightest change in her composure. “I haven’t seen Jon in… how long has it been?”

His mouth feels dry and he needs to drink about a gallon of water. “A year,” he croaks. 

“Really? Has it been that long? It feels like just yesterday, doesn’t it?” Not really, he thinks. Those months after they had broken up had been some of the longest of his life. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to answer, because she continues. “And then running into you here. With…” she pauses. “I’m sorry. Sansa, was it? Sansa  _ Stark _ .” She emphasizes the name, drawing out, letting it, and everything it implied, hang in the air between them.

“Princess, please,” the man says softly. “Let’s get home.” 

Jon swallows. He’s had enough of her intruding on their meal, on his life, on Sansa’s celebration. She’d given him an ultimatum and he’d chosen. And afterward, she had cried and raged and threatened, but when it came down to it, he could never pick her over the only family he’d had left. And though it had wrecked him, in more ways than one, to do it, he’d left. And now, whatever this fragile thing with Sansa that he was building, whatever it was they had, he wasn’t going to let her wreck that too by ruining Sansa’s night. By ruining his night.

“I’d think you’d better,” he says, his voice low but firm. And she shoots him a look, and Sansa lightly touches his arm, a silent reassurance, which he loves her for, even if it is exactly the wrong thing to do. Even if he knows that it will just set Dany off. He doesn’t care. He made his choice a year ago, and he has no intention of going back on it, especially not with Sansa’s hand on his arm and a look of concern on her face. She might not love him, not now, not ever. But she  _ cares _ about him. And that alone is enough to make him sure that he regrets not a fucking thing.

“I knew it,” Dany spits. “This whole time, I knew it. Fuck you, Jon.” And she storms away. The man looks at him, a tad apologetically, Jon thinks, and he should know, because he has given that look before, and then the man is gone, following his princess out of the dining room.

Sansa’s eyes are wide as she looks at him. “Are you okay? I can ask for the check. We can get out of here.”

“No,” he says quickly, and he puts his hand on hers, steadily returning her gaze. “No. She doesn’t matter.” And he means it, because the only thing that matters in this moment is Sansa as she asks him if he is sure and squeezes his arm before pouring them each another glass of wine. “I wasted a year of my life, more than a year really, on her. Don’t want to spend another second.”

“It was that bad, huh?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Arya told me a bit. She said you were MIA for a while.”

“She talked to you about it?” he asks.

“She was worried.”

He sighs. “Not exactly my finest moment.” He is embarrassed that she knows exactly how pathetic he had been. How pathetic he thought he still might be.

She smiles at him sympathetically. “I don’t exactly have the best taste in exes either. You know that.” 

“But you survived them.”

“So did you.” She holds up her wine glass. “To shitty relationships and becoming the person you are despite them.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” he says, his glass touching hers. They both take a sip of wine, and he feels some of the buoyancy of the evening returning, though it is hampered by Dany’s intrusion and never quite reaches the heights that it had. 

He is stuffed, but when Sansa sees a lemon chiffon tart on the dessert menu, she insists that they order it. When she takes a bite, she lets out a moan that has Jon thinking about the sounds she would make with his head between her legs and when he looks at her, he knows that his eyes are dark, full of a hunger that he doesn’t think would ever be fully satiated. She must see it, too, he thinks, because her lips part slightly, and she tells him that he has to try the tart, bringing a forkful to his mouth. And even though it is not exactly dessert that he wants to be eating at this point--at least not the literal kind-- it is good, but what is better is when Sansa reaches up and wipes a crumb from his lips. 

He should kiss her. He wants to with everything inside of him, and he is almost certain that she wants it to. But he can’t. Not yet. Not with the wine pounding through his head and Dany hanging over the evening. When he kisses her, he wants her to know that it is because of her, not because he is drunk or feeling emotional about an ex. So he lets the moment pass, and hopes that he won’t regret it the rest of his life.

The waiter comes and Sansa asks for the check, he tells her that everything has been taken care of by Mr. Baelish. Her smile falls, and when Jon asks her what’s wrong, she shakes her head slightly. “Petyr never does anything with expecting something in return,” she says darkly.

He thinks about that the whole ride back to their flat, about what the man wants from her. But when Sansa says good night, hugs him, thanking him for going out with her, and his arms wrap around her, and he pulls her close, he doesn’t think about Baelish or Dany or anyone or anything else. All he can think about is her and how perfectly they fit together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really hoping to get this chapter up for Valentine's Day, but I really struggled writing the confrontation with Dany, so here we are. I hope it works. Thanks again to everyone for the very kind reviews. <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seemed that Mr. Baelish was already collecting for the night out, already making Sansa pay for it and then some. 

Every night the next week, Sansa calls him to tell him that Petyr has some stuff to go over, precedent to double check, a brief to read through one more time, a client report she has to proofread, things she needs to get done, and she will be late. Jon makes dinner—he never used to cook much when he was on his own or living with one of his exes but he discovers that he likes it, finds it soothing—and has food ready for her when she slumps exhausted onto the couch, apologizing for having to respond to just a few more emails. “I thought after the Lannister case I might get a bit of a breather,” she says, “but I guess not.”

It seemed that Mr. Baelish was already collecting for the night out, already making Sansa pay for it and then some. 

“You ever think about leaving. Finding something else? Doing your own thing maybe?” he asks.

“All the time. But he keeps promising me that I’ll make partner soon, and that would be so huge for me. I’d be the youngest in the history of the firm. I thought after the settlement. He keeps assuring me that it's only a matter of time. He just needs to get Varys on board...” She trails off. 

He wants to tell her how he feels. After their dinner out, he is certain that she feels the same.  _ Almost _ certain. As certain as he is likely to be without explicit confirmation. He spends his nights, his days, thinking about the way she smiles at him—bright and genuine and radiating through her entire body—the way she puts her hand on his—easy and natural and tender—the way she looks at him—all the light in the world contained in her eyes-- the way she fits into his arms—perfect and like finally coming home. 

Still, the timing never seems right. She’s so tired when she gets home from work, and after they eat whatever meal he’s prepared she either sheepishly pulls out her laptop or she falls asleep while they try to watch a movie or tv show, her head on his shoulder, her soft snores giving her away. It isn’t time yet. But soon. Soon he will tell her. Once things settle down for her at work. And just the thought of it makes him feel excited, light, buoyant, even, and more in love with her than ever. 

Thursday, Jon gets a call a few hours before the end of his shift. He doesn’t usually keep his phone on him while he is working, but today he must have slipped it into his back pocket without thinking. Or, more likely, while he was thinking about Sansa, a topic that seems to take up more and more of his headspace with each day that passes. 

The shop is open late one night a week, and he still has a lot of work to get done. But it’s her. If it wasn’t, he probably wouldn’t have picked up. He would have just dealt with it when he was done. But he looks at the selfie that she had taken and set as her caller ID, her head tilted to the side, her lips a bit puckered. He catches himself dumbly staring at the picture for a second before answering.

“Hey? What’s up?” he asks, expecting that she will probably tell him that she is going to have another late night. Apologize for not being around much. Let him know not to wait for her for dinner, though he will anyway. He’d rather not eat alone, no matter how late she is. 

“Jon?” she says, her voice small, strangled with tears. Every muscle in his body tenses, his heart pounds, his hands clench even though there is nothing to hit. Breathe, he reminds himself, like you’ve practiced. Just breathe. 

“Sansa? What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Where are you?” He tries to keep his voice steady, but he can’t stop the panic from tearing through it.

“I’m at home. I…” she trailed off. “I know you’re supposed to work late tonight, but is there any way…”

“I’m on my way,” he says before she can finish the request. He doesn’t think Mormont will mind him ducking out early. It’s an emergency. And if he does, well then, fuck him. Jon will find a new job. “Can you just hold on for one second?” he says, trying to keep his voice soft despite the rage and concern coursing through him. “I just have to let them know I have to leave.”

“Okay,” she replies.

“I’m still right here. I promise. I’m not going anywhere.” He finds Edd in the office, talking to a customer, but he interrupts, not caring about anything but how quickly he can get out of there and home to Sansa. “I have to go,” he says, and he wonders what the other man sees in his face because he just nods without question or comment. “I’ll be there soon,” he assures her as he starts to make his way back to the flat.

His walk home from the garage usually takes him about fifteen minutes. This time it takes him ten. He’s practically jogging, and most days he’ll smoke a cigarette or two— a reward, he justifies it to himself, one that he’s earned either for getting out of bed or for putting in a long day’s work—but today there’s no time for that. He doesn’t even think about a cigarette, because he is too busy attempting to say comforting things into the phone, even though he still doesn’t know what he is comforting her about, and trying to get home to her as quickly as he can.

By the time he get to the door of his flat, he is breathing heavily, and he is not sure if his heart is racing from the stairs or from worry or some combination of the two, and he opens the door and she’s there, her mascara running and face streaked with tears, still wearing the skirt and blouse she’d had on this morning when she’d left for the office, and he says, “I’m here,” because he doesn’t know what to say, and he is already moving toward her and she is rushing to him, and his arms are around her, and he feels the shaking of her sobs, the dampness of her cheek which she presses against his, and he says “I’m here, I’m here,” again and again and again because he has no idea what else he can say, what more he has to offer her except himself. And from the way that she clings to him, he thinks that he  _ might _ just be enough.

He isn’t sure how long they stay like that, but he knows it doesn’t matter. It is as long as she needs.

Eventually she pulls away. “Thank you,” she says. “I’m sorry to make you come home early.”

“Please,” he says. “Don’t apologize. What happened? Are you okay?” He scans her quickly, and she doesn’t seem to be hurt, not physically anyway. But he also knows that it is not always the physical blows that hurt the most, that go the deepest, that leave the nastiest scars.

“I don’t think I am okay,” she says. “Not tonight. But I will be. And I don’t want to talk about it.” She pauses. “But I think that maybe I should.”

So, she takes his hand and leads him to the couch, which she curls up on, leaning against him.

“It didn’t start this week,” she says. “But this week it got to the point where I couldn’t ignore it anymore.” It had gotten worse after she broke up with Harry, she says, and she tells him about Baelish would stand too close to her when they talked, the way he would lean in and speak softly in her ear—his whisper in her hair, crawling over her skin—the way that he would tell her how beautiful she looked, that she had grown into quite a woman, his eyes raking, lingering, over her curves— so that even when he was not in the room, she could still feel his gaze on her, hungry and hot and sticky—the way he touch her shoulder and lower back and hair and the side of her face— his fingers leaving their invisible traces that clung to her like oil— the way he kept pressuring her to go for a drink with him after work, even though he had kept her there so late they were practically the only people left in the building—the invitation heavy, leaden, with implications, with expectations, with obligations that she would have to meet, so though he asked he almost every night, she found excuses to say no, to put him off, for a least one night longer. 

And she had let him. She had let him do all those things. Not because she enjoyed the advances or the attention, but because he was her boss, a senior partner, and if she was ever going to advance her career, she was going to need his support, and she wouldn’t have that if she went to HR. And Baelish was an old family friend. Had known her mother when they were children, and he had visited her family a few times when she was growing up—a part of her feared that was the only reason why, after her parents died, he had hired her in the first place. She had tried to convince herself that his familiarity was a result of the bond he’d shared with her mother. Tried to dismiss it, ignore it, do anything but think about what it was he wanted from her. 

Jon feels every muscle in his body tense as Sansa talks and he does his best school his features into an expression that doesn’t reveal the rage coiled through him. He doesn’t think he entirely succeeds.

“Still,” she says. “I thought I could handle it. Handle him. Until tonight.” She pauses, takes a deep breath, and Jon realizes that he has been holding his own, his body too tight, too contracted for air. Breathe, he reminds himself. Like you practiced. Just breathe.

His gut twists with the sudden understanding that she has been going through this, enduring this alone. That she hadn’t mentioned it to him, hadn’t told him. And part of him is hurt, that she didn’t trust him, didn’t tell him. Didn’t want him to know. This knowledge slams into him, roils through him and he can’t help but feel that he’s failed her. That he should have known even if she did not say a word about it. They’ve been living together and she had been dealing with that asshole’s bullshit and he hadn’t noticed a  _ fucking _ thing. 

“What happened tonight?” his voice rough, nearly a growl, betraying the anger, the violence simmering just beneath a surface that he is doing his best to keep placid.

“He called me into his office. Said he had big news. I was hoping it was going to be about finally making partner. No one makes partner so young. But he kept telling me… I’m so dumb for believing him. For everything.” 

“Whatever he did,” Jon says. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

“Wasn’t though?” Her voice is hard, but Jon understands that she is angry with Baelish, with herself, maybe and wrongfully, undeservedly, but not with him. So he doesn’t respond. “I believed him. I always fucking believe them. And I let it get to this point. I never told him ‘no.’ Not when he touched me or said those things. I just let him. Not even when he locked the office door behind him, saying that he didn’t want our conversation to be interrupted. I never did anything. Not even when he kissed me, I just stood there like an idiot, frozen, hoping that it would stop, but not doing anything.”

Jon swallows. “He kissed you?” Now it is not just anger, but also a little twinge of jealousy, that he can’t help, can’t suppress, no matter how ashamed of it he is. The thought of Baelish’s lips—the thought of anyone’s lips, except for his, on hers—sends him spiraling. 

“He told me that he wanted me by his side. That he would make me a partner.” She tells him about how Baelish had run his fingers down her cheek to her neck, pulled her hair out of its bun, telling her that it was as beautiful as her mother’s. And then taken her face in his hands, had pressed his lips against hers, and she had just stood there, awkwardly. Not kissing him back, but also without pushing him away. Not until he ran a hand over her breast and down to her thighs, trying to push them apart. It was only then that she stumbled back, retreated from him, but he had followed her, pinned her against a wall. “I can give you everything you’ve dreamed of,” he had said to her. “And all I ask is that you let me take what I’ve made clear that I've wanted for a very long time now.” And then she had finally found her voice and told him ‘no.’ 

But he’d had her trapped, between his arms, behind the locked door, and he’d kissed her again, hard and rough, pushing himself against her. But she had been somehow managed to get away--she couldn’t say how, and she knew that Arya would be extremely disappointed with her for not putting to use any of the self-defense strategies she had tried to make her learn--and she had scrambled to the door, got out of the office, made her way home. 

“I can’t go back there,” she says.

“Of course you can’t.” He wishes he could though, wishes he could slam Baelish against the wall where he had Sansa pinned, his hand around his throat, tightening, squeezing, looking into his eyes as he panicked, gasped for air that had been cut off, warning him that if he ever touched her again, ever thought about touching her that he would kill. He would enjoy killing him, because he has hurt her, and if there was one person in the entire world that was worth killing over, killing to protect, it is her. 

The rage is tearing through him, fury hard and hot, and wanting a way out. But he holds it back. The way he and Davos talked about. Breathe, he reminds himself, just breathe. Think of her. Not him. She needs you.

“If I quit, though,” she says. “What will we do?”

“We’ll be fine,” he says, in a tone that he hopes is reassuring.

“I‘ve got some money saved up. But it’s not that much. And if I want to start my own practice...” she trails off.

“We’ll be fine, Sansa,” he says. “Let me...” he pauses. “Let me take care of you.” He holds her eyes with his, hoping that she can see everything that he means but hasn’t said—let me take care of you, let me be with you, let me love you—and terrified that she will. “At least for a little while. At least until you can figure something out.” 

“Thanks. I’ll pay you back when I can, I promise.”

“Sansa,” he says, his gaze still steady. “You don’t owe me anything, okay?” 

“Okay,” she says, her voice small again. “But only if you promise me one thing.” 

“Anything.” The word leaves him quickly. A breath a rush. He would give her anything in this entire world. And he excepts not a fucking thing in return. Dreams about, yes. Hopes for, sure. But he doesn't  _ expect _ a thing. He had meant it when he said she owes him nothing.

“Will you let me take care of you too?” 

“We’ll take care of each other,” he says, leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss against her forehead.

Later that night, she tells him that she is tired, going to bed. He hears in the bathroom, the running water as she rinses her toothbrush, the flush of the toilet. She says goodnight to him, and softly closes the bedroom door. He has the tv volume turned so low that he can barely hear it, trying not to disturb her, but also needing a distraction, something to keep him from thinking about all the things he would like to do to, all the ways he wishes he could comfort her, all the ways he would like to hurt Petyr fucking Baelish. She’s been in the room for about a half an hour, and he assumes that she is asleep, but then he hears her softly call out his name. He is halfway to her door within seconds, opening it, asking her what she needs. 

“I know this is going to sound stupid,” she says. “But do you think you could just hold me.” 

It doesn’t sound stupid at all. Not to him. 

He gets into bed, awkwardly at first, and she moves closer to him and he pulls her into his arms, against his chest, and then it doesn’t feel awkward any more, just  _ right _ , the most right that anything has ever felt to him. 

It isn’t long before he hears her breathing slow, steady as she falls asleep. He tells himself that he will get up in a few minutes, that he is only going to stay here, his arms around her, his body pressed against hers, until he is certain that she is really, deeply asleep. He doesn’t want to disturb her, so he will just lie beside her a little bit longer. 

He isn’t sure what time it is when he falls asleep, but it is 1:37 am when he wakes up. She is curled against him, her hand on his chest, and every part of him wants to stay exactly where he is for the rest of his life, to never leave this bed, her warmth, the heat of her breath against his skin. But that isn’t what she asked of him, so he slowly, gently, disentangles himself from her, and lies down on the couch, imagining, remembering the feel of her body against him as he falls back to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and for all of the lovely comments. I am going to try to keep updates on this as regular as possible, but I am in the weeds of preparing my prospectus for my dissertation committee, so apologies in advance if I fall behind. Thanks again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is sitting across from Davos, holding a cup of herbal tea. He takes a sip, and it is too hot, burning his tongue as swallows. 
> 
> “Have you spoken with Sansa?” Davos asks, eyeing Jon over his glasses. 
> 
> Jon looks down at his hands. “No.”
> 
> “Is there a reason?” 
> 
> He sighs. “There always is.” 

Jon is sitting across from Davos, holding a cup of herbal tea. He takes a sip, and it is too hot, burning his tongue as swallows. 

“Have you spoken with Sansa?” Davos asks, eyeing Jon over his glasses. 

Jon looks down at his hands. “No.”

“Is there a reason?” 

He sighs. “There always is.” 

“That’s telling,” Davos says. “Let’s come back to that. But for now, let’s talk about why not. Are you still concerned that she doesn’t feel the same?” 

“I wasn’t. For a few days, at least. I thought that. Maybe.” He runs a hand over his hair. “But now I’m not sure anymore. Got scared, I guess. I don’t know.” 

“Why? What changed your mind?” 

“She didn’t tell me.”

“Didn’t tell you what?”

“Her boss. He was…” Jon pauses, trying to find the words. “Well, he was a creep. Touching her. Promising her things if she fucked him. Or at least implying that. Kissed her. And she was going through that and she never said a word about it.” Jon sighs, and leans back. “That has to mean something, right?” 

“And you think that means she doesn’t care about you?” 

“Well, yeah.” 

“And why is that?” 

“Because isn’t that what you do when you care about someone? You share things with them? Everything?” 

“Do you?” 

“Yeah.” 

“When did you tell her about our meetings?” 

Jon lets out a huff. “That’s different.” 

“Okay, when did you tell her everything that you felt about her?” 

“Also, different.” 

“Is it? Why?” 

“It just is,” he sighs. “I mean, she was in trouble. Why wouldn’t she tell me?” 

“Has it occurred to you that her not telling you was not actually about you?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“It could be that she wasn’t ready to admit to herself what was happening. Telling you would have forced her to do so. Or perhaps she was embarrassed. Didn’t want you to think less of her.” 

“It wasn’t her fault,” he says darkly.

“Of course, it wasn’t. Because sometimes we blame ourselves for things that are not our fault.” He looks at Jon pointedly. 

“Yeah. I guess.” 

“Why do you think you automatically assumed that it was because she didn’t care for you?” 

Jon looks down at the steaming mug in his hands. Because he is a self involved jerk? Because he is looking for an excuse, any excuse, not to talk to her? Because despite everything he is still scared to tell her how completely in love with her he is? Because right now he doesn’t have her, but he is the closest to having her, the closest to having happiness, that he has ever been and some chickenshit part of him is terrified of losing it? 

“I don’t know. Just did. I guess.” 

“You said something earlier, you said that it is never the right time. Why do you think that is?” 

“Because I want to do things right with her. After everything she’s been through. She deserves it. I just want it to be perfect.” 

“Ah. And what if you never come across a time or a situation that is ‘perfect’? You’ll just never say anything?” 

“No. I mean, I just want to be good enough for her,” he says, knowing that it is true and doubting that he will ever get there, ever really, truly, fully believe. He still wants her, will still spend his life with her if she lets him, but even if they were together fifty years, he knows that at least some part of him will believe that there’s been a mistake. That someone like him should have never gotten a chance to be with someone like her. 

When he meets Davos’s eyes, they are kind. “Jon, maybe you don’t want to hear this from me, don’t need to hear this from me. But you’re a good man. You’ve already proven that. I see it. Bet that she sees it, too. Now it is a matter of letting yourself see it. ”

Jon meets up with Robb again for drinks. The baby is due in a week, and his friend is equal parts excited and terrified. 

“There’s just so much to do. You have to babyproof everything,” Robb says, as he takes a swig of his beer. “The electrical sockets, the stove, the cabinets. I can't even open the one the bleach is in. It’s impenetrable.” 

Jon doesn’t know all that much about kids, but he is pretty sure the newborns don’t come out of the womb trying to get their hands on cleaning products. 

“How’s Jayne holding up?” 

Robb grins. “She’s amazing. I mean, she’s making a life inside of her, her baby— _ our baby _ —this totally miraculous thing, and she is still like going to work and stuff. If it were me, I wouldn’t do a damn thing.” 

Jon laughs. “Yeah. Women are remarkable,” he says, his mind already turning to Sansa. Her strength. Her resilience. Her kindness. Even after everything she’s been through. Remarkable doesn’t come close to it.

“How is Sansa?” Robb asks, as though reading his thoughts, or at least the stupid look on his face that he’s sure has betrayed him.

She had shown him the letter that she’d gotten from Varys. A very, very generous severance package, ‘for your troubles,’ he had written, and an NDA. 

“What do you think I should do?” she had asked him.

“What do you want to do?” 

She had sighed. “Part of me wants to drag him to court. To expose him and everything that he’s done. Make him pay.” She paused. “But another part of me just wants to sign the fuckingn thing. Put it behind me.” Her eyes met his. “Does that make you think less of me?” 

“Not at all,” he said. “You should do whatever you need to. Whatever is going to help you get to where you need to be, you know?” 

She had looked at the letter again. “That money could help. Us. Could use it as seed for my practice.”

He glances at the letter again. “It’s a lot of money,” he says, but he feels like that’s an understatement. It’s more money than he makes in a year. But he also knows that shouldn’t sway her. She needs to do what she thinks is right. What will help her get through this. It  _ shouldn’t _ sway her, but it is  _ a lot  _ of money.

“It’s the perfect amount of money. And he knows it. Damn him. It’s less than I could probably get in a settlement. But not that much less. And this way I don’t have to go through the whole ordeal. It’s a good chunk of money for doing nothing.”

“It’s not for nothing,” he said, his voice low and angry. “Those things that bastard did to you, what you had to…” he trails off. “He deserves to pay. This and a whole lot more.” 

She had placed her hand on his arm, calming, reassuring, and he feels like a shit, because he should be calming and reassuring her. “I just meant without going to trial. Besides he is a good lawyer, really good, one of the best, for all that he’s a terrible person.” 

“Likely because of it.” 

“Really? You’re going to make lawyer jokes to me, Jon Snow?” She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Really?” 

He hadn’t been entirely sure if she was joking, and he felt a blush creep into his cheeks because the  _ last _ thing he wanted to do in the world was offend her. And when he looked up at her, about to apologize, she was grinning playfully. 

“You’re probably right,” she continued. “He is slimy and ruthless and cunning and he almost always wins. If I try to take him to court, I might lose. Probably will. There’s a reason why so many women don’t report this sort of thing.” She looked at him, her smirk gone. “Do you think it would make me a coward? To just sign the NDA and take the money?” 

“I think that you are one of the most remarkable people I have ever met. What you decide to do isn’t going to change that.” 

Her eyes had held his, searching, though he wasn’t sure what for. There were no answers he could give her. He didn’t know them himself. “Then I think I might. I think I want to put this behind me and move on.” 

“Hanging in there,” he answers Robb. “I think she is going to be okay.” 

“Good,” Robb breathes out heavily. “I worry about her. And she didn’t text me back last week.”

“Yeah. She’s been busy trying to get stuff in order for her to start doing her own thing.”

She dragged him to over a dozen office spaces the past week, but had declared that none of them were right, didn’t have the feel she wanted, weren’t quite what she was looking for. 

“I can’t fucking believe Baelish. That motherfucker. If I ever see him, I’ll rip his balls off.”

“Castration would fit the crime.” 

“Speaking of castration. Have you grown a pair and finally talked to her.” 

“About what?”

Robb gives him a dude-you-are-such-an-idiot look. “About how completely obsessed with her you are.” 

“I’m not that obsessed,” Jon says, but he can feel the color rising in his cheeks. He hopes that his beard will cover most of it, but if there is one person who can always see through him, it’s Robb. 

“Oh come off it. She feels the same, you know.”

“Has she said something to you about it?” Jon asks, trying to keep his voice casual, neutral, knowing that he is failing entirely. There is no way that he doesn’t answer too quickly, speak too eagerly. 

“She doesn’t have to, man. She talks about you all the time.”

“We live together. She doesn’t have much else to talk about.”

Robb gives him another pointed look. “You think when I lived with Theon I mentioned him every ten seconds. She  _ likes _ you, Jon. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, because I’m actually encouraging you to bone my sister, but just talk to her, put both of you out of your misery.” 

“How did you know? When it was the right time? With Jayne, I mean.”

“I didn’t. There isn't a ‘right time,’ not really. You just sort of fumble through, make it work. You know?” 

“I guess.” 

“Listen. I love you both. Want you to be happy.” He claps Jon on the shoulder. “Just talk to her.” He pauses. “But keep in mind, if you hurt her, your balls are mine.” 

When he gets back to the flat, Sansa is curled up on the sofa under the blanket that he uses at night. Though he would never admit it to anyone, especially not her--not yet anyway--he loves it when she does that, because it means that he gets to fall asleep with the smell of her around him. Sometimes, if he times it right, her warmth lingers as well. 

“How’s he doing?” she asks, looking up from her phone. 

“Kinda a wreck about the baby. He went over the whole birth plan with me. Twice.”

“That’s to be expected. I can’t believe he is having one already. He’s basically a baby himself.”

“He’s not that bad.” 

“If he didn’t have Jayne to take care of him, I doubt he would last a week.” 

He laughs. “Fair. How was your day?”

“Ugh,” she grunts. 

“That good?”

“Marg sent me this. So naturally I haven’t been able to think about all the paper work I need to file.” She passes him her phone.

He scrolls down and sees an image of Hardyng at some sort of charity event. Fancy. Black tie. He tries really hard not to feel at all gratified by the slight bump in his otherwise perfect nose. He isn’t entirely successful. 

Hardyng’s arm is around the waist of a strikingly beautiful woman with olive skin, sultry dark eyes, and abundant curls that fall down her back. Other attributes are abundant as well, he can’t help but notice. Especially given the very revealing neckline of the dress she was wearing.

“It appears that the Seven Kingdoms’ most eligible bachelor may not be so eligible anymore,” the article begins. “Harry Hardyng, heir to the Aryn fortune, was spotted last week at a charity event at High Garden. There have been reports that he seemed to be very cozy with Arrianne Martell, only daughter of Dorian Martell, and quite the heiress herself. Sources say that the two were completely inseparable all evening and there have been reports that they were seen leaving together. Rumors have been swirling around Harry since his former fiancee, Sansa Stark, left him heartbroken late last year. Sources close to Hardyng have hinted that she left him for another man, though Hardyng himself has been silent about what happened between him and Ms Stark, and she has refused to comment. Hardyng has deflected all questioning about his relationship with Ms Martell, who happened to be vacationing on the summer isles at the same time last year, photographs of the two of them causing considerable speculation. This reporter, for one, hopes that poor Harry might find himself a bit more lucky in love this time around.” 

“Well, shit,” Jon says as he finishes reading. Have there been articles like this about her, he wonders. But he is not a big enough of an idiot to actually ask. He has at least that much sense. 

“Yeah. Not how most girls find out that their ex is over them. That he’s moved on. And with a rich, beautiful heiress too.” 

“How are you feeling?” He wants to ask her if she is over Hardyng, too, if she has cast the memory aside, that she, too, might be ready to move on. To have something new, someone new. But he can’t. This isn’t the time for that, he knows that as surely as he has ever known anything. No matter what Davos and Robb have been telling him, there is definitely a wrong time to spill his guts, and he’s pretty sure this is it. 

“Fine. Mostly,” she sighs. “I mean I knew he wouldn’t be single for long. That isn’t really his style. And I honestly don’t care. I wish her well of him. Though I don’t think she’ll get it. Still, I mean it’s kinda hard. And I can’t point to any rational reason why.”

“Not sure reason has much to do with it.” 

“Guess not. I would kill for a cigarette. You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?” she says, a bit archly, her fingers twisting together, the only sign of her unease.

“There’s a pack in my coat pocket,” he says. And he grins sheepishly at her raised eyebrow.

“I thought you’d quit.” She says with a smile. It’s a joke that they toss back and forth. Once a week, he tells her that he is going to quit, and he does do better the next few days. Once he went five cold turkey. But inevitably, he finds himself with a lit cigarette in hand and a lung full of smoke. He needs to quit. For real this time. 

“I did. Tuesday,” he grimaces, and she laughs, really laughs, at his facial expression, and it is one of the most beautiful sounds he has ever heard. Every time he hears it, he is immobilized, ensnared by it. “Didn’t take, though, it seems.”

It is like they are teenagers again, leaning out the window to smoke, hoping that the smell doesn’t drift inside and give them away. Because Jon had signed his lease as a nonsmoker, when he  _ was _ a nonsmoker and he can’t afford to get fined. And the Sansa is so close, the scent of her hair, her skin, the flowery perfume she wears sometimes in his nose, and when she leans forward to exhale, her breast brushes against his forearm where it is leaning on the sill.

Restraint, he reminds himself, as he takes another drag, the irony not lost on him. But the way that she is looking at him in the dim light from the street lamps, with those big blue eyes that just swallow him, that he wants to be swallowed by. Her lips part as though she is about to say something, but she doesn’t, she _ just keeps looking  _ at him, and he nervously runs his free hand over his hair.

“What?” he finally asks, after what seems like hours, time passing with agonizing slowness as she just stares with that expression that he is in no way equipped to decipher.

“Nothing. It’s just…” she sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me,” he says, and he wonders if she picks up on the husky desire, desperation,  _ need _ for her in his voice.

“That article…. And I saw Brienne today. We talked about a lot of stuff. Gave me a lot to think about. About what Harry said. That day you went with me to pick up my things. Remember? Other things. Stuff like that.”

The headiness of the moment dissipates in an instant, and he is sober, because of course she is thinking about that—it hasn’t been  _ that _ long, only a couple of months, and with that article coming out—and not whatever he had been dreaming up. And he is such an asshole for thinking, for  _ hoping _ , that it might be other than what it so obviously was.

“He’s a jerk,” Jon says gruffly.

“I have to tell you... it’s just... well, I mean,” she says, fumbling for words, her discomposure uncharacteristic. “I kind of wish I had slept with you, you know, that first night. But I’m glad I didn’t.” His heart is pounding, on a goddamn  _ rollercoaster _ of emotions, raised up before plummeting down.

“Okay,” he says dumbly, because hell if he knows how the fuck to answer that.

She blushes, and it is so beautiful that it is unfair, that it really should be illegal, the way that she disarms him, the power that she has over him. “I’m glad,” she says again. “Because when I do sleep with you Jon, I don’t just want it to be getting back at Harry for being a cheat. I want it to be something more. I want it to be about us... I mean, if you'd want me, like that, I guess.”

And he is already grinning, like the idiot he is, because she said ‘when’ she sleeps with him, not ‘if,’ but  _ ‘when _ ,’ as though it is a thing that she is so certain of, this thing that he has dreamed about, fantasized about when he is jerking off, but never thought would  _ actually happen _ . Not really. Not with her, not ever with her. 

If he'd want her? Of course, he'd want her. Like that. Like any way she'd let him. Wanting her is all he's been able to think about for months. 

“I’m already yours,” he says. “Have been for a while now.” And these words are so easy to say, no awkwardness, no fumbling, because they are desperately true. He is not sure that he can remember a time when he wasn’t hers, only times when he hadn’t quite realized it yet. He swallows, and says it, lets himself say it, those simple words, single syllables, but so heavy, holding so much weight. “I’m in love with you, Sansa.” 

His voice is thick with the confession. He takes another drag of his cigarette, so that he doesn’t have to meet her gaze, doesn’t have to see her expression, how she has reacted to his declaration, doesn’t have to have his heart broken immediately if she doesn’t feel the same, rejects him, wants to sleep with him, maybe, but not love him, knowing that he'll take whatever she'll give him, because he is just that pathetic. But the cigarette is doing anything to calm him down, the taste of ashes now stale in his mouth, and without even thinking about it, he grinds it out in the plate that he has been using as an ashtray. He doesn’t want it anymore. He was going to quit. For real. For good.

“I think I’m in love with you, too, Jon,” she says softly, and he looks up, meeting her gaze, doubting that he heard correctly, that she could truly feel that way about him. 

Her lips part and he leans toward them, meeting them with his, gentle at first, then harder, more desperate, lips parting, his tongue in her mouth, her tongue in his. They both taste like smoke and it is burning him up to be like this.  _ With her. _ To be kissing her. To be cupping her face. To be running his fingers through her hair. To be pulling her closer toward him and feeling the press of her breasts against his chest. Hard. Harder than he has ever been and wanting to be closer to her than clothes and skin allow. 

She pulls back, and he isn’t sure if they have been kissing for seconds or hours when she does. “Sorry,” she says, and he cringes at the word, because he knows all of the disappointment, the heartbreak it can lead to, “I’m sorry. I just…. I just don’t know if I can do this right now.” 

And his heart sinks, heavy and leaden, the fullness of a moment before becoming the painful ache of being close,  _ so close _ , to finally having her, being with her, giving himself to her, to finally holding her and feeling her and loving her and knowing for sure that he was meant to be doing this all along, and then to have that pulled away the moment, the  _ second _ , he got it. 

“Do you mind if I just take a little more time? Is that going to make things super awkward? I know that I care about you. I know I want to be with you, Jon. I just... Petyr, Harry, all of it, I want to make sure it is completely behind me. It’s just all happening at the same time and so fast and don’t want any of it to get in the way of us. Sorry. Can we just take things slow?” 

He breathes a sigh of relief, because it is not a ‘never.’ Not an ‘in your dreams.’ Not a ‘we can’t be together.’ Not a ‘this is a mistake, I can’t believe we just did that.’ Just a ‘wait’ and waiting he can deal with. Gods know he’s done enough already. “Take all the time you need. When you’re ready, just let me know.” 

“I will. Soon. I won't make us wait long. I swear,” she says, and the heat in her eyes, way her tongue curls around the words, there is a promise there, and he knows he would wait for centuries for another kiss like that if that is what she needs.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still, while they are something different, Jon isn’t sure exactly what that something is.

Things are different now. Of course they are. How could then  _ not _ be? He told her he loves her. She said she loves him to, or at least  _ thinks _ she loved him, and he is trying not to think too hard about what he is going to do if she realizes that she thought wrong. They had kissed, really kissed, in a way that burned through him, ignited something that was still smoldering between them, the torch that he is carrying flaring with a flame that won’t be smothered, not by all the waiting in the world.

Still, while they are  _ something _ different, Jon isn’t sure exactly what that something is.

Sometimes, when they are walking down the street together, she takes his hand in hers. At night, when they watch tv, she snuggles next to him, and he drapes his arm around her and she leans her head on his shoulder or his chest and he wonders how she can hear the television over the pounding of his heart. 

And in those moments, every part of him wants to kiss her again--more, he sometimes thinks, than he has ever wanted anything-- knows that it would be so easy, too easy, but he doesn’t. Even if the wanting of her nearly kills him. Because he promised her he would wait for her to be ready, and he will muster the restraint to do so. 

Still, there is a tension crackling between them, charging every touch, every word. He isn’t sure if she feels it too, but he is electrified. 

He talks to Davos about it and when the older man asks him how he feels, he answers honestly: better than he has in a really long time.

They go out together. Dinner. The bar. She meets his mates, and he isn’t sure how to introduce her. “This is my…” ‘best friend’s little sister’? ‘flatmate’? ‘friend’? ‘girlfriend’? None of those seem right, so he just finishes the sentence lamely with ‘Sansa.’ “This is my Sansa.” He knows he sounds like a fucking idiot—and that his friends can see just how simple he has gone over this girl—but he also supposes that it is the most true way to introduce her. Because, to him, she is  _ his Sansa _ , though he still isn’t completely sure if he has the right to claim her. 

That night they start sleeping together. Not making love or having sex or fucking. Just sleeping. 

They get back from the bar, and he isn’t drunk, but he is just _happy_ in a way he is not sure he has ever been, in a way he didn’t think that he  _ could _ be, and he feels a little lightheaded, a little fuzzy, and he smiles to himself as he changes into the sweats and tee shirt he sleeps in. He meets her in the bathroom where she is brushing her teeth and he fucking  _ treasures _ moments like these when they do, without thinking about it, those little insignificant things that couples do, things that wouldn’t mean anything expect that he is doing them with her. 

She rinses her brush, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. “Would you mind holding me again? While I fall asleep?” 

“Course,” he says. Because in what world would he ever mind that? “Everything okay?” he asks, running his toothbrush under the water. 

She smiles. “Better than okay.” And he follows her into the bedroom.

“Good,” he replies, and it is  _ good _ as he slides into bed next to her. He wonders how they know, just  _ know _ , without saying a word whose side of the bed is whose, and, as he wraps his arms around her and breathes in the scent of her hair, he wishes that everything in this world could be as easy as things are with him and her right now. 

He wakes up to her alarm, and her groggy request to turn it off. He reaches over her to the nightstand where she left her phone, hands it to her, and she hits snooze, and then rolls over, putting her head on his chest and snuggling against him as he pulls her closer. It is only then that he realizes where he is and what they are doing, and he is wide awake, his body going rigid with the sudden panic. Because he wasn’t supposed to fall asleep, wasn’t supposed to wake up next to her, no matter how normal, how natural, how right, it feels now. 

She opens her eyes and looks up at him. “Hey,” she says, her voice rough from sleep. “Good morning.” 

“Good morning,” he replies. “Sansa. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep. I just...” He trails off because she is looking at him and smiling. 

“That was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

The next night, as he is setting up his makeshift bed on the couch, Sansa comes to the door of the room that has become, over the past few months, hers. “Come to bed, Jon,” she says.

“You sure?” He hesitates, because they had agreed to take things slow, and he is having difficulty gaging their exact speed.

“Positive,” she says with a smile. “Come on. Unless you’d prefer the couch?”

“No contest. Though I have gotten used to it.” He settles into bed beside her. “I think I could get used to this too.” 

“I hope so,” she says, as she takes his hand in hers, pulling his arms tighter around her. And he knows that the truth is that he is dangerously used to it already. And he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he ever loses whatever this thing with her is. 

His blanket stays on the couch, because Sansa likes to curl up under it while they watch tv, but he sleeps in the bed every night after that. 

It is agony for him to be so close, to feel her breath on her neck and to hear the little moans she sometimes makes in her sleep, to feel her body pressed against his, so close, and yet not fully  _ his _ , not yet. It is agony and he wouldn’t not trade it for anything in the world. 

Even after they started spending their nights cuddled around each other, he still isn’t sure what he is to her, and if she is ready for them to be something more. He is terrified to take a wrong step, so he lets her have the lead. He just isn’t entirely sure where she is leading him or when they will get there. Doesn’t matter, though. He is just glad that she is letting him follow.

They aren’t dating--at least he doesn’t  _ think _ they’re dating, though they might be--but whatever they are doing, he’ll take it.

Besides, if he is being honest with himself, the nonrelationship he has with Sansa is probably the healthiest relationship he has ever been in. Not saying much, though. 

Jon is making dinner when they both get a text from Robb: “Water broke!” it reads. “On our way to the hospital!!!!” 

“Finally,” Sansa says, her smile broad. Jeyne was a week past her due date, though Robb had assured them in almost daily text messages that everything was fine, that the baby was just taking its time, nothing to worry about. But Jon could tell that Robb was getting more and more anxious, on edge, for the baby, for Jeyne, and powerless to do anything about it. “I wonder if he’d be so excited if he was looking down however many hours of labor Jeyne’s got in store.” 

“And without drugs, too. Jeyne’s pretty set on a natural birth.” 

“Do I want to know how you know that?” 

“Heard the birth plan. Twice. Remember?” 

Sansa texts well wishes from both of them and asks Robb to keep them updated. But they go to bed without hearing more from him. 

“When we wake up,” she says, “we’re probably going to have a little niece or nephew. I can’t wait to meet him or her.” 

He smiles and presses a light kiss to the top of her head, his heart achingly full at the ease with which she includes him in the family, in her family. That even though he doesn’t share blood, she sees him just as much as the baby’s uncle as she's its aunt. He loves her for that. “Neither can I.” 

Sansa’s phone rings at 3:46 am. “Turn it off,” she mumbles, pulling the blankets over her head. “Still sleeping.”

Jon grabs her phone, the way he has each morning that they have woken up together—he learned quickly that Sansa is  _ not _ a morning person and that she fights with her alarm every day when it goes off. Now that he is here, she lets him deal with it, so that she can steal a few more minutes of sleep.

“Sansa,” he says gently, “it’s your brother.” 

She takes the phone from him. “‘Lo,” she mumbles into it. Jon can’t hear what Robb is saying but he’s sure it isn’t anything good when Sansa responds, “We’re coming,” a razor’s edge of worry cutting through any lingering sleepiness. “Be there as fast as we can.” Robb says something, else, and Sansa is already out of bed, searching for a sweatshirt to pull over the tank top she went to sleep in. She finds one of his, and puts it on, and even though he knows his timing is terrible, that this isn’t the moment, still a part of him can’t tear his gaze away from the sight of her in his clothes. Her hair is mussed from sleeping and she still has on the old flannel pants she wears to bed, but goddamn it if she doesn’t look the sexiest he has  _ ever _ seen her.

“Love you, too, Robb. We’ll be there soon as we can.” 

Jon gets a grip on himself and turns his attention back to his phone, which had been plugged into the charger, pulling up the Uber app. “There’s a car four minutes away.”

“Can you order it?” 

“Done.” He doesn’t know what exactly is going on, but it doesn’t matter—Sansa needs him, Robb needs him, and that’s the only thing that does. 

He pulls on one of his other sweatshirts, a pair of sneakers, and they rush out of the flat, down the stairs, together. 

As they stand waiting for the car, Sansa leans into him, and he puts an arm around her waist. She fills him in on what is going on, what little she knows. Robb was panicked and not entirely clear but something about the umbilical cord, an emergency c-section, general anesthesia, Jeyne going into surgery alone, he couldn’t be with her, wouldn’t see the birth of their baby. 

“Fuck,” Jon says.

“Yeah,” she replies, and he tightens his arm around her, pulling her a little bit closer, as close as he can.

The car arrives and this early in the morning traffic is light, so they get to the hospital in sixteen minutes. Sansa hurries in, the man at the reception desk telling her where to go, as they wait impatiently for the elevator. 

They find Robb pacing in a waiting room. Sansa says his name softly, and he turns to look at them, his eyes red rimmed, dark circles beneath them. “Oh, Robb,” she repeats, and she rushes to him, throwing her arms around him. “I’m sorry. So sorry,” Jon hears her say. 

Sansa releases Robb, who turns to Jon. “Hey, man,” he says, his voice weary from lack of sleep and the tears he cried while he was waiting for them to arrive. 

“Hey,” Jon says, and he also pulls Robb into a hug, clapping his back, in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture. “How you feeling?”

Robb sighs. “The same way I look. Like shit.”

“It’s been a tough night,” Sansa says diplomatically. 

“That’s an understatement,” he says. “Thanks for coming. Both of you.”

“Of course,” she answers. “Where else would we be?”

“Probably at home. Asleep,” Robb replies. “Sorry to wake you up.” 

“Glad you did,” Jon said.

“Yeah. You shouldn’t be alone, Robb.” 

He looks from Jon to Sansa. “I wish mom and dad were here,” he says, his voice breaking.

“I know,” she says. “I do, too. Every day. But especially today. They wouldn't want to miss this. Their first grandchild.” She hugs Robb again, and Jon can see the way his body shakes, convulsing with tears, while Sansa makes soft soothing noises. 

“She’s going to be so upset,” Robb says through the tears. “She really wanted to do this naturally. She’s going to hate this so much.”

“I know,” Sansa says gently, patting her brother on the back, “but the doctors are going to do everything they can too make sure that they are both okay, and that’s what matters right now.”

“I’m not going to be there. We’re both going to miss it. I’m not going to be there to meet my baby.” 

“It sucks. It really sucks, Robb. I’m sorry.” 

A nurse comes into the waiting room.

“Mr. Stark?” she says.

Robb pulls away from Sansa. “Yes? Is everything okay.” 

“Everything is fine. Your wife and child have been stabilized and are just finishing up with pre-op. Once it gets started the procedure generally takes one hour or so. Someone will check in to let you know how everything is going.” 

“Thank you,” Robb says, his voice raw.

The nurse leaves, and Robb looks around the room, as if unsure what to do. “So I guess we just wait?” he finally suggests. 

“I don’t think there are many other options.”

“I wouldn’t mind hunting down a coffee. Could use the caffeine,” Jon says. 

“I think I’d better stay here. Just in case,” Robb replies. He doesn’t say just in case of what. Doesn’t have to.

“Can I get you anything? If I can find something.” 

“There’s a cafeteria on the first floor. And tea would be great.” 

“Sansa?” 

“You’d be my hero if you could bring me a cup of coffee.” She smiles at him gratefully. "Thanks."

Jon takes the elevator to the ground floor and finds a cafe. It is almost entirely deserted, only a man and woman sitting at a table, staring into paper cups, not looking at or speaking to each other. Though Jon has no idea who they are, or why they are here, he feels a sudden surge of sympathy for them. Whatever the reason. It’s not good. 

He orders and realizes that he forgot to ask Robb how he likes his tea. It strikes him as odd that he doesn’t know, and he suddenly feels completely, irrationally guilty about it. Sansa, he knows, puts a generous amount of honey in her, four sugars and a lot of milk in coffee. He takes his black. How is it that he never bothered to learn how Robb likes his? It feels like failing on his part, because all he can do for Robb right now is get him a fucking cup of tea, and he can’t even manage to do that right. He pours milk and sugar into one of the coffees, stirring it until it is exactly as light and sweet as Sansa likes it and grabs a fistful of sugar and honey packets and couple of those little creamer cups for Robb, balancing it all as carefully as he can as he makes his way upstairs. 

Sansa and Robb are sitting next to each other, and they look up at him when he enters. He panics for a moment, not sure where he is supposed to sit, next to Sansa or next to Robb. But they both get up to help him with the drinks, taking theirs from him, and saving him from having to make a decision. 

“Wasn’t sure what you like in yours,” he says to Robb, holding out the creamers, sugar, honey, the packets a bit crumpled. 

“Thanks, man,” Robb says, taking two sugar packets. “I needed this.” 

“Wish there was more I could do.” 

“You’re here, Jon. Both of you. You don’t know how much that means to me.” 

“Course, Robb,” he says. “Always.”

He sits down, and Sansa sits next to him, Robb across from them. They don’t say much, and Jon tries his best to stop his hand from fidgeting, wanting to check the time and knowing that not nearly as much as he thinks has passed, that the minutes, the seconds, are dragging on, moving with unimaginable slowness. 

Sansa must feel his restlessness, his unease, must sense his anxiety, so she takes his hand in hers, threading their fingers together, calming his agitation, stilling his disquiet. His eyes meet hers and he gently squeezes her hand, a silent thank you, and when he turns away, he sees Robb, focused on the spot where Jon and Sansa’s fingers are intertwined. 

“You two dating now?” Robb asks. 

And Jon opens his mouth to answer, but realizes that he has no idea  _ how _ to answer. He has no idea if they are dating or not. He doesn’t know what the hell they are, just that he won’t ever stop being grateful for the pressure of Sansa’s fingers on his. 

“Yeah,” Sansa says. “We are. Sorry, Robb, we probably…” But Jon doesn’t hear what she says next because she sounds so certain that they are dating, definitely dating, and he can’t help but grin stupidly at the confirmation, at the fact that he is dating _Sansa Stark._

“Finally,” Robb says, and for the first time that morning he smiles. “Good. It’s good.” 

“You’re not angry?” Sansa says, a bit incredulous.

“Should I be?” 

“Jon’s your best friend. And I’m your annoying little sister.” 

“You’re not  _ that _ annoying, Sans. Not any more at least. Besides, you’re right. You’re my sister.” He turns to look at Jon. “And you’re my best friend. After everything you’ve been through, after everything we’ve been through. Want you both to be happy, you know?” 

“Thanks,” Sansa says. “We’re going to get through this too. Together. No matter what happens.”

“I know,” Robb says, grimly. 

They sit in silence for a while longer. There are a couple of halting attempts at conversation, but they are all too anxious, too preoccupied, too tired to say much of anything. Every once in a while, Robb gets up and starts pacing, unable to help himself from checking the time on his phone every minute or so. 

“Have you talked to Arya? Bran? Let them know what’s going on?” Sansa asks. 

“Texted them both. Arya offered to try to grab a flight home. But I told her not to worry about it. Not yet, at least.” 

“What about Bran?” 

Robb grimaces. “You know how he is.” 

“Yeah. But he’ll be here if you need him. We’re his family. He hasn’t forgotten that. Not really.” 

“I know.” 

The nurse returns. “Mr Stark?” she says. 

Robb stops his pacing. “Yeah?” he says, his voice catching. 

“The operation went smoothly. The surgeon is just finishing up with Ms Stark, and then she’ll be taken to post-op and recovery. She should be conscious in an hour or so. Maybe a little more.” 

“And the baby?” 

“Healthy. Beautiful. In some tests now, just a precaution, but I’d like for you to come with me so that you can have skin-to-skin as soon as possible.” 

“Everything is okay?” 

“Yes, Mr. Stark. Everything is okay.” 

Robb turns to where Jon and Sansa are sitting. “Everything is okay,” he says, smiling widely. “It’s okay.” 

“That’s wonderful, Robb,” Sansa beams at him. 

“Really great,” Jon says, letting out a breath that he hadn't realized he was holding since the nurse entered the room. 

“Thanks,” Robb says. “Hey. You mind hanging out a bit longer?” 

“Not at all,” Sansa reassures him. “Whatever you need.” 

“Thanks,” Robb says again. “I’ve got to go meet my kid.” 

Robbs leaves and Sansa breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank the gods,” she says. “I don’t know what he would have done if….” she trails off. “I can’t even think about it.” 

“I know.” 

She turns to look at him. “Jon,” she says, her voice low, and she brushes her finger along his cheek, and then she is leaning into him, and he is leaning into her, their lips meeting, and she tastes sweet like four sugars and a sigh of relief. He wants to stay like this forever, with his lips on her lips, his tongue in her mouth, her tongue in his, but he knows that they can’t, knows where they are, so when she pulls away, he doesn’t protest, as much as every inch of him is screaming not to let her go. “Thanks for everything this morning,” she says. 

“You don’t need to thank me, Sansa.” And it's true, but there literally isn’t anything that he wouldn’t do for Robb. For her. 

“I know I don’t need to,” she says. “But sometimes it’s just nice to be thanked.” 

They sit together. She rests her head on his shoulder and he puts his arm around her, and when he hears her breathing steady he finds himself envying her ability to fall asleep anywhere. Still, time passes quicker with her breath in his ear and her warmth beside him. 

It is way too early to expect a response, but he texts Jeor anyway. Tells him what is going on. Asks if he can come in late. He scrolls through some news headlines, but it is all depressing, and he doesn’t want to be depressed. Not today when there is so much to be happy about. 

Robb comes back to the waiting room. “It’s a boy,” he says as he enters, and then, noticing Sansa, he drops his voice to a whisper. “She asleep?” 

Jon nods. “Sansa,” he says softly, nudging her softly to gently shake her awake, as she mumbles an objection before seeming to remember where they are.

“Everything okay?” she says. 

“It’s great. It’s a boy. I have a boy. And he’s fine. And Jeyne is fine. And I want you to meet him.” 

Robb leads them to Jeyne’s room in the maternity wing. “She’s not feeling great,” he says. “But she wants you to meet our son.”

“Poor woman,” Sansa says. “We won’t stay long. You all need your rest.” 

Jeyne looks exhausted, but she manages a weak, but genuine, smile when they enter. “Thanks for being here. For Robb. For me,” she says as they wash their hands. 

“That’s what family does,” Sansa says. 

“Well, meet the newest member: Ned.” She winces as she sits up, and Robb is there in an instant, taking the baby, pausing for just a moment to marvel at him before handing him to Sansa. 

As Jon watches her hold the baby, cooing softly, “Hello, little guy,” she says, leaning over him, the infant’s hands curling toward her, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead, “I’m your Auntie,” and then looking up, meeting Jon’s eyes, and smiling, in that moment, his heart is so full that he is surprised that he can breathe--there shouldn’t be any room in his chest breath, for lungs, for any thing but her and a future that he can't help but imagine. 

She walks over to him. “And this,” she says, handing him the bundle in her arms. “Is your Uncle Jon.” The baby is so tiny, so light, and he suddenly feels so clumsy, terrified that he is going to drop him or hurt him or break him in some way. “You are going to love him so much,” she continues, standing next to Jon, her hand on her shoulder, looking down at the infant, this miraculous new life, he holds, and he thinks that he has never been happier, and when she continues in a whisper that only he can hear over the sounds of the hospital, “Almost as much as I do,” he knows it. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She angles her face up to his, and then they are kissing again, slow and unhurried, without the desperation at the fire escape or the hospital, because neither of them has anything else to do the rest of the day. And more than just that: it is the first time that he’s kissed her that, some part of him at least, isn’t worried that this is the last time he’ll ever get to. 

After the hospital, they grab breakfast. Jeor texts him, tells him to take the day, that he won’t be much use if he is completely knackered. His head is a little fuzzy from getting only a few hours of sleep, from his adrenaline wearing off now that he knows that everything is okay. He has another two cups of coffee with his eggs, but it doesn’t help to clear his head at all. And he wonders if the fuzziness isn’t actually because he is tired, but because his head is  _ so full of he _ r that it is blurring the edges of everything else. 

When they get back to the flat Sansa takes a shower, claiming that she needs to freshen up a bit, that she looks a mess. He thinks she looks beautiful, which he tells her, the words leaving his mouth before he has a chance to think about them, to stop them, and she smiles and shakes her head, and tells him that he is a liar, even though she knows he isn’t. When she comes out of the bedroom, hair damp, cheeks flushed from the heat of the water—she likes her showers scalding hot, the mirror fogged and bathroom full of steam when she’s done—she is still wearing his sweatshirt, and he smiles.

“What’s up?” she asks.

“Just relieved everything worked out. For Robb and Jeyne.”

“Me too. Being back in the hospital like that. It was harder than I thought it would be.”

He nods and pulls her close to him, not caring that her hair will leave a wet spot on his shirt. Because he remembers the hospital that night, the waiting room, the doctor coming in, the assurance that they had done all they could, the apology that it wasn’t enough to save either of them.

She angles her face up to his, and then they are kissing again, slow and unhurried, without the desperation at the fire escape or the hospital, because neither of them has anything else to do the rest of the day. And more than just that: it is the first time that he’s kissed her that, some part of him at least, isn’t worried that this is the last time he’ll ever get to. 

She must have brushed her teeth after the shower, because she tastes like mint, and he becomes suddenly very self conscious of his breath, which is sure must be terrible from sleep, fried eggs, and too much coffee, but she doesn’t seem to mind, so he tries not to let it bother him, tries to let himself just  _ enjoy _ the moment, enjoy being like this, with her, without worrying that he’ll mess it up. 

Kissing becomes something they do, and he can’t  _ fucking _ believe it, has to constantly remind himself that he isn’t dreaming or fantasizing about it, that it’s really him and really her and this is something they really have together now. In the morning when they wake up, still cuddled together in the warmth of their bed, before he leaves for work, sometimes only a quick peck, sometimes long, hungry, lingering, his hands on her hips, her arms around his neck, leaving him breathless, reeling, and running late, when he gets home at night, in bed, the last thing they do before they fall asleep, the murmur of “goodnight” and “sweet dreams” still on their lips. It feels so natural, so easy, like breathing, and he doesn’t know how he survived without it for so long and if he will ever be able to do so again. 

Arya comes for a weeklong visit to meet the newest family member. Robb invites them all over and they bring takeaway, because Sansa insists that even though her sister-in-law is recovering well, she still has Robb and a newborn--Sansa claims she doesn’t know which is more helpless-- to care for, and there is no reason why she should have to cook for all of them.

Gendry is apprenticing with some metal workers, so he doesn’t make the trip, but as Robb hands beers to Arya and Jon and pours a very generous glass of wine for Sansa and a smaller one for Jeyne, Arya assures them that he is doing well. 

“He’s a real genius with that stuff,” she tells them, a mixture of pride and awe and affection crowding her voice, and Jon wonders what happened to the little girl who swore that she would never like boys because they were all so dumb. “He said he’s going to make me a sword,” she grins wickedly.

“I suppose that means he never plans on pissing you off, then,” Robb says, returning her smile.

“Oh, he still does that plenty,” Arya replies. “He’s taken to asking me once a week if I’ll marry him.”

“And you don’t want to?” Sansa asks.

“I do. I mean, eventually. Just want to wait until we’re old and boring before we settle down like that. And he knows it.” 

“It’s not so bad,” Robb says, taking Jeyne’s hand in his. 

And Jon does his best not to look at Sansa, but he can’t help but glance at her from the corner of his eye. And he can’t hope but look toward a future he never imagined could be his. 

“Of course it’s not bad. It’s just not for me. Not yet at least.” 

At dinner, they pass around cardboard containers and remember the past. Robb tells a story about a time they went camping, Robb, Jon, and Theon, and the first night they got so drunk around the campfire that after Theon passed out, the other two got it in their heads to scare him by pretending to be wolves. When they got to the campground, there had been signs warning of sightings, and Theon had been terrified.

“We got on all fours, and started prowling around the tent, making all these snaring and and rustling sounds. It was really good. Sounded just like some sort of animal.” Robb remembers. 

“Sure you did, honey,” his wife interjects, patting his hand.

“We did!” Robb insists. “Anyway, eventually we woke Theon up, and he yelled, who's there? Real scared. And then Jon, makes his voice all deep and gruff, so that he’s like almost growling, and goes…” 

“I’m a wolf,” Jon says, finishing the sentence, and looking bashful at Sansa, who smiles and bumps his knee with hers under the table. 

“And Theon, after pausing a moment, yells out, ‘Wolves can’t talk.’ And Jon is real committed to the bit, so he keeps pretending to be a wolf, still crawling around on all fours, and arguing with Theon about whether or not he can talk.” Robb roars with laughter. “It was incredible” 

And they continue to laugh, as Robb tells another story about how he and Jon terrified the girls by pretending the basement was haunted and dressing up like ghosts, covering themselves in flour, to spook them. “I still haven’t forgiven you for that,” Sansa says, but the way she is smiling, her eyes bright, lets him know that she has. 

They clean up after dinner while Jeyne nurses Ned, and then Jon slips out the kitchen door to the back stoop. He has really quit smoking this time. When he first resolved to, he went six days, and then broke down and bought a pack. But he only smoked two cigarettes from it before throwing it in the bin so that he wouldn’t be tempted. And so it went, and he managed longer and longer stretches without smoking until he found that it was not quite so impossible to resist. Still, he sometimes feels like he needs to get away for a few minutes by himself, even if he no longer has the excuse of a cigarette. 

“So, you and Sansa,” Arya says, half question, half observation, the door closing softly behind her. 

“Yeah. Me and Sansa. How’d you figure it out?” They hadn’t told her, hadn’t held hands or kissed in front of her. It wasn’t that they were hiding anything, not really. Just that there was something nice about keeping things just between them in the private little world they had built for each other. They just weren't ready to go fully public. Not even to Arya. Robb knew, of course. But he was too busy caring for Jeyne, taking in every detail of his son, to pay Jon and Sansa much mind. 

“I’m not blind and you’re so obvious. The way you look at her,” she starts ticking off her fingers, “and she looks at you. The way you are always orienting yourselves around each other like you’re magnets or something. The way put a hand on her back, her waist. The way she touches your shoulder. Do I need to keep going?” 

“No,” he says, realizing that he had become so accustomed to those things, the looks, the small touches, that he hadn’t even realized he was doing it, that she was. But he knew in his soul that if he lost them, it would destroy him, gut him completely. 

“Probably don’t even know you’re doing it, do you?” She laughs when he doesn’t answer. “It’s nice to see you happy. If you had asked me, I would have  _ never _ imagined you two together. Not in a million years. But for some reason, and I don’t have  _ any _ clue how or why, it actually works.”

He glances at her from the corner of his eye and scoffs.

“Look,” she says, punching his shoulder. “I’m trying to be nice here. You’ve both had shit luck in relationships, and if it works, it works. At least with her I don’t have to worry about you going MIA for months because your girlfriend won’t let you see me. Sansa knows I would kick her ass if she ever tried to pull that.”

“You know she wouldn’t.”

“I know. She’s good like that. And I know she’ll be good to you and you’ll be good to her. I’ve made my peace with it.”

“Well, that’s very grown up of you.” 

“I have grown, you know.”

“You’ll always be my adopted little sister.” 

“Only because you’re lucky enough that I’m not a giant like everyone else in the family is. I’m going to grab another beer. You want one?” she asks.

“No. I’m going back in, too,” he says, catching a glimpse of Sansa through the window. She is holding little Ned, bouncing gently, talking with Jeyne. 

She punches his arm again. “I don’t think I’m going to like not being your favorite Stark sister.” 

He looks at her earnestly. “She’s not taking your place, you know. No one could.”

“I know,” Arya says, giving him a playful push. “Just don’t you forget it.” 

On the walk home, Sansa links her arm through his, leaning against him. 

“That was really nice,” she says. 

“It was.” 

“It was so good to see Arya again. Hope she comes home soon. Bran too. I want all of us to be a family again. All of us,” she repeats, squeezing his arm for emphasis, to let him know that she is including him. That he is her family too. In ways that he always has been. In ways that he never let himself hope he would, and clumsily brushes a kiss against the side of he head as they walk, and she turns so that her lips meet his. 

He is not sure what time it is when he wakes up with his cock hard and pressed against Sansa’s ass. His arm is flung over her and she is curled up against him, and when he tries to ease himself away from her she moves closer, rubbing up against him. His heart is pounding and his breathing heavy and he feels like a perv because he is not sure if she is conscious or not as he groans, half in pleasure, half frustration.

Ygritte used to play a game like this with him, teasing him with her ass, pretending to be asleep until he got her so hot that she couldn’t steady her breathing, couldn’t silence her moans, couldn’t pretend any more. That was the fun of it. Those were the good times with her, when they had been able to play, when their fucking hadn’t be equal parts hate and desire. But then Sansa moves against him again, all thoughts of Ygritte, of all the  _ whole damn world _ , leave his brain, and there is only her. Because how could he possibly think about another woman when he was here with the one he’d wanted all along.

He swallows, and although he knows it's futile, he tries to think about something else. Anything other than her ass against his cock, and her breasts beneath the thin cotton tank top that she wears to bed, her stomach flat and smooth, and the triangle of tangled red curls between her legs. But in thinking about not thinking those things, he can’t escape them. He has no control, not over his brain, not over other, less contemplative, parts of his body. Especially once she shifts again, pressing herself harder against him.

Maybe he should wake her up, he thinks, but the embarrassment of doing that with his erection straining against his sweatpants is too much. He knows that she knows that he wants her in every way he can imagine--to gently, softly, slowly make love to her, to fuck her hard and fast until she is coming around his cock, to grab her ass as he takes her from behind, to hold her hips while she rides him until they are both panting, to have her against one of the walls of their flat, her legs wrapped around him. When they’ve kissed he hasn’t exactly been able to hide that fact. And every look, every gesture, every touch, every word has been an echo, a confession--forgive me for I have sinned, I’ve had impure thoughts-- of the desire that his body refuses to keep secret. 

He tries again to slide away, but again, she presses against him, and he thinks that maybe she is awake, and he wishes that she would give him some sort of sign, because now he is pushed into a corner with no escape, not that he really wants to escape anyway, despite the pretense he has made. She shifts again, and his arm brushes against her breasts and he can feel her nipples harden at the contact, and he could almost swear that she arches into it, but he can’t be sure.

And then, as her ass grinds against him again, she takes his hand in hers and places it on her breast. His fingers rub a gentle circle around her nipple, pinching slightly, and she moans, and the sound of it is almost enough to make him come. His hand moves to the other breast, teasing it as well, and then he turns her gently toward him.

“Are you sure you want this?” he says, because he needs to make sure, needs to hear her say it.

“I want you, Jon,” she replies, and it is more than he ever could have hoped for. “I want us. I love you.” 

“Sansa,” he breaths, and then her lips are on his, her tongue in his mouth, and her fingers are in his hair, while his hand stokes her side, to the hem of her tank, sliding under, caressing her flat stomach and moving back to her breasts. And this time, when she moans, it is into his mouth. She pulls away from his kiss for a moment to yank her tank top off, and he takes the opportunity to take of his tee-shirt, because he knows that once his mouth is back on hers, he will pull away only long enough to kiss her neck, her breasts, his tongue teasing her nipples, while she takes his hand in hers and slides it down her stomach and between her legs. Her cunt is slick as he slides a finger inside of her, his thumb tracing slow circles around her clit.

She fumbles with his sweat pants and boxer briefs, pushing them down around his thighs, so that she can take his cock in her hand, stroking it in the same rhythm that his finger is plunging in and out of her. He groans, nipping at her breasts, his thumb rubbing her clit, slowly building the pressure on it.

He moves down her body, kissing every inch of skin he can, pushing down her flannel pants and cotton panties, which may just be the sexiest thing he has ever seen. And then his head is between her legs, sucking her clit and licking her cunt, and she is moaning and writhing, and pushing herself against him, and he is greedily taking her in, until she, shuddering and shaking, calls out his name.

And then he is kissing her mouth again, the taste of her cunt still on his tongue. “We can stop now,” he tells her. Because as much as he wants to sheath himself in her, to be completely engulfed by her, he doesn’t want her to do anything she isn’t ready for.

“Don’t,” she says, her voice still a bit breathless. “Please, Jon. No more waiting. I want to be with you.”

She pushes down his pants and boxers down the rest of the way, and he laughs from the sheer joy and disbelief of being her like this, with  _ her _ , and gets up from the bed to grab a condom, scrambles in a way that is _extremely_ undignified, and he has to rip the packet open with his teeth, because his fingers are too clumsy to deal with the foil and his brain isn’t exactly functioning on a level conducive to creative problem solving. And then he is kissing her again, and she is beneath him, spreading her legs and eager, her hips arching toward him, her hands on his cock guiding him inside of her.

“Oh fuck. Sansa,” he moans as he enters her, hot and tight and wet, and all around him. She’s inside him, in his head and his heart, and his pores, and in this moment there is nothing but her. Her mouth on his mouth, her breasts pressed against his chest, her cunt around his cock as he enters her, so slowly and she moans, bucking against him as if to pull him deeper inside of her, as if he could drown in her any more than he already is.

“Jon,” she sighs, she moans, she cries, as he slides in and out of her, first slowly, then faster, harder. He slows his pace, leaning over her on his elbow so that his other hand can stroker her breast. She lets out a moan as his fingers flick across her nipple. “I love you.”

“I love you.” He says, his voice hoarse against her neck. “Love you so much,” he says as he thrusts into her again. “Love you, Sansa.” It is a prayer, supplication, thanks, disbelief that this is happening, that he is with her like this, engulfed by her, loving her, and her, by some miracle, loving him in return. 

She surges up to meet his lips, and he slows his pace, not wanting this to end, not ever. 

Her response is a whimper as he slams into her and her fingers find her clit. He pinches her nipple while she rubs her nub, his cock buried deep inside of her, and it does take long for her to cry out, to twist beneath him, and he knows that she is coming, and with her sounds beneath him, her movements around him, his name in her mouth, he is coming too.

They lay panting together, not yet ready to speak, Jon not sure if he will ever be able to speak again.

“That was…” she says, trailing off.

“Yeah,” it is more of a croak than a word. He clears his throat, but can do nothing about his head, which is so clouded, so full of her. “Not exactly how I had planned for that to go.” he says. 

“You thought about it?”

“Sansa,” says running a finger along her cheek and kissing her fully, deeply, the kind of kiss from which he never wants to surface. “It’s been hard for me to think about anything else.”

“So tell me about these thoughts.” 

He is relieved that in the dark she can’t see him. “Don’t know. Our first time together? Rose petals and candles.” She snickers softly. “It sounds corny, I know,” he says, trying not to sound too defensive, trying to ruin what they just had together. “I just wanted it to be perfect, you know. You deserve that.” 

“So do you,” she says, taking his hand in hers, threading their fingers together. “And it was perfect, because it was you and it was me.” 

He smiles, bringing their hands to his lips, kissing her fingers. “I love you. Don’t know what I did to be this lucky.”

“Didn’t have to  _ do _ anything. You just had to be you,” she says, and she kisses him, sweetly, lightly. 

He has no idea what time it is, because being her, like this, with her, it’s like time, the rest of the world doesn’t matter.

“It’s late,” she says, as though reading his mind. “Or early. Depending on your perspective.”

“Guess we should try to get back to sleep. Both have to work in the morning.” He excuses himself to the bathroom and throws the condom in the toilet and flushes it. When he gets back to the bed, she is still gloriously naked--her pale skin glowing in the dim light of the street lamps--and it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

He climbs under the covers and she curls up into him, and it is only once he wakes up again in the morning, with her naked and in his arms, that he is fully convinced that the whole damn thing wasn’t a dream.

She sleepily opens her eyes. “Jon?” she murmurs, her voice full of sleep, her head resting on his chest. “You know how I told you I’d just crash here until I found a new place?”

“Yeah?” 

“I think I’ve found it. I think my place is with you. Wherever you are. I think maybe it always has been. For the first time, in a long time, I’m home.” 

His smile is broad and stupid, and he doesn’t care. “I think my place is with you too,” he says, and there literally isn’t  _ anywhere _ in the world he’d rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it. Thank you all for coming on this journey with me. When I had originally plotted this story, it was only supposed to be four chapters. Thanks to all of your very kind comments for inspiring it to grow. 
> 
> I have another story in the works, which I hope to start posting soon (just as soon as I convert the classes I am teaching into an online format). Hope to see you there. 
> 
> Thanks again for all of your support.


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